1980s called – Contemplating the divine

Tainted love

As the title suggests, we are once again back in the 1980s when all of Servitor’s tastes and obsessions, so fluid up until that point, suddenly seemed to fix, for life. Including femdom, so in the absence of actual magazines from the era*, here is the cover and letters page from a fictional femdom top-shelf mag from the period, Empress, based ~~so closely as to be legally actionable~~ loosely on the Vixen and Mistress magazines** of my furtive and spurtive later youth.

Letters

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

A longtime reader of your magazine, I felt I had to write to express my appreciation of the story Pretty Maids All in a Row. As someone whose deepest fantasy is to be dressed and treated as a housemaid I was thrilled at the thought of this group of neighbourly women getting together to enforce this form of subjugation on their husbands. Although I can obviously empathise with Ian and Robin, who share my obsession, as demonstrated by their ready embrace of their uniformed role, I also enjoyed reading about Timothy’s more reluctant and confused journey to acceptance of his new lifestyle. And of course John and Euan (or Jenny and Eunice, as they had become at the end), whose outright resistance, rebellion and inevitable comeuppance provided the main drama of the piece.

I thought that the author did a great job in quickly bringing out these different characters, and still more so those of their wives. I found Deborah to be the most exciting of these admirable ladies, although I suspect I would find her rule a little too harsh for comfort, while Lydia’s playful, highly sexualised style of dominance and Rita’s kindly but firm control of her household also struck a chord. Sandra and Naomi, in contrast, seemed less interested in the venture and I wonder whether Sandra was drawn into the plan only at the behest of her lover Deborah? In which context, I adored the scene in which those two ladies despatch their maid-husbands to share a single bed in the guest room, while taking the ‘master’ bedroom for themselves. The surprise and confusion of Robin and Euan, locked into a small room together for the night, was a treat – would they experiment with homosexuality as their wives were so evidently and noisily doing next door? How very male of them never even to mention the possibility, but instead simply to lie motionless, each in his pretty nightie, and silent like two strangers ignoring one another in a public place, while the giggling and shrieks of sapphic pleasure came through the wall.

The rebellion plans hatched at the meeting of the Ironing Club were dealt with most effectively, I thought. The accounts of John and Euan’s initial punishments were most exciting, as was the promise of the stricter regimes they would be following in future, with the assistance of Lydia’s formidable-sounding mother. The story ended with them sobbing themselves to sleep… well, they didn’t get anything more than their just desserts, after all. I did wonder whether Timothy and Robin should really have got off scott-free, though? After all, they were present at the Ironing Club when this rebellion was discussed and even if they refused to go along with it, they should surely have reported the conversation immediately to their wives, as Ian did? A maid’s duty is to her mistress, not to other maids, especially disloyal ones. Deborah and Naomi might want to ask them – rather sharply! – why exactly they believe a maid can keep a secret from her wife and mistress? Ian has the right attitude, although I hope that Rita’s praise for his actions doesn’t go to his head: maids who think too much of themselves can soon find themselves being taken down a peg or three! I hope too that the other maids come to realise in time that Ian was really acting in their best interests, in the long term.

Goodness, Goddess-Lady Lucia, writing this and recalling the story as I did so has left me hot and flushed! I had better go and scrub some floors to calm myself down. Thank you so much again, for your wonderful magazine. I do hope we’ll be reading more about the maids and their delightful wives.

With a deep curtsey

Maid Polly

A passable letter of appreciation, Maid Polly, I hope your needlework is up to the same standard. I’ve met several men who fantasise about the life of a housemaid. I usually find that they tire of it by the third or fourth hour and if I am feeling generous, I may accept their application to leave my service – although I do insist on a three-month notice period being worked out. Pretty Maids All in a Row will continue in the next edition. Now get on with your work, girl. G-L. L.

To my sister in dominance

I greatly enjoy your magazine, particularly the stories about males in chastity, as my feeble excuse for a husband has been since day two of our marriage. Unlike some of the complicated rituals described in your stories, I take a no-nonsense approach to his infrequent releases. There is no set schedule, no anticipation on his part. I will one day suddenly produce the key and instruct him to fetch a pair of kitchen gloves. Unlocked, and wearing the thick rubber gloves, he kneels facing the wall and pumps as hard and fast as he can. He is forbidden to look at me, so there is no stimulation whatsoever, but having been locked up for so long, he almost always becomes erect immediately and rapidly reaches orgasm. It is usually over in less than a minute: he catches the foul stuff in his hand and licks the kitchen glove clean.

Then it is time for the crop, which I have been tapping, during his pathetic sexual activity, to remind him of what is coming. I beat him after every orgasm for two reasons: to make the overall experience unpleasant so that any excitement at the prospect of sexual release is mixed with dread, and because in his immediate post-orgasmic state, he will get no sexual excitement whatsoever from the thrashing: it is pure pain. He bends over and I deliver a rain of hard cuts across his buttocks, then – sobbing, reluctant and terrified – he is made to turn around, stand straight with his legs apart and arms behind his back, and receive as many flicks with the tip of the crop across his soft, shrivelled member, as I choose to give it. It is so sensitive at that moment, there is no pleasure greater to a true female sadist than to crack her whip across that pathetic little strip of flesh.

Finally, I order him to take a cold shower, for precisely three minutes under the full cold jet, then he dries off and must quickly return to beg me humbly to lock him back up again, which I willingly do.

Some might consider this cruel. I suppose I do. I imagine he does too, but I really don’t care.

Yours in sadistic sisterhood

Lady Monica

Oh, I thoroughly agree with your approach, Lady Monica. The male orgasm is such a disgusting, filthy business. It is naturally much briefer and less impressive than the female orgasm and it seems only proper, as well as being delightfully cruel, to curtail it further. I hope your husband is suitably grateful – I imagine he wouldn’t dare fail to be! G-L. L.

Most exalted Goddess-Lady Lucia

Do you have a favourite slave?

Most humbly

Trevor

Ha ha ha ha ha ! No.

For the same reason that I have no favourite among any of the pieces of used chewing gum I have occasionally been unlucky enough to find stuck to the sole of my shoe. G-L. L.

Most revered Goddess-Lady Lucia

Some time ago, I was accorded the privilege of having a letter about my relationship with a lady disciplinarian, my Governess, Miss H——–, printed in your superb magazine. With Governess H——–’s permission, I am writing again on the off-chance that you and your readers might be interested in an update on that relationship.

Specifically: at the end of a recent disciplinary session, while I was drying my eyes and delicately easing my sore bottom back into pants and grown-up trousers, my Governess suddenly asked me whether I would like to meet her some time outside her classroom, for example a day out in London for some lunch, with shopping.

Goddess-Lady Lucia, I was thrilled! I am head-over-heels in love with this beautiful but strict lady and the thought of spending such time with her was a dream come true! I readily agreed and we made arrangements to spend a Tuesday three weeks later (so long to wait!): meeting at Regent’s Park in the morning, walking a little in the park, then down through Marylebone for lunch, before going to Oxford St for some shopping. My Governess made quite clear that any inappropriate behaviour on my part – whether over-familiarity inappropriate to a boy in the presence of his Governess, or excessive servility inappropriate in public, in front of people unaccustomed to relationships such as ours – would be punished, most likely later in private. I realised I would have to walk a narrow line: remaining respectful but not so forgetting myself as to behave like the naughty schoolboy I know myself to be in her presence. Alas, I strayed off that line on several occasions as I will now recount.

On the day, I was waiting for my Governess ten minutes before our agreed meeting time. She looked stunning, when she emerged from the Tube on that bright autumn morning: a long skirt, sharply-cut jacket and boots: every inch the Victorian governess yet also modern and elegant. I was dressed smartly too: in a suit, as instructed, with the same school tie I wore on my visits to her the only hint of my inner schoolboy. She looked me up and down, sighed slightly, reached out to straighten (and tighten!) my tie, then nodded curtly.

I found myself tongue-tied and lost for words, particularly as I was used to speaking only with permission or when spoken to and of course to calling her ‘Governess’ or ‘Miss H——-’. She had anticipated both problems and informed me that the ‘speak when spoken to’ rule was suspended, unless she indicated otherwise by using the word ‘hush’ and that I could address her as ‘Miss’ when out of earshot of strangers, or ‘Mary’ if we could be overhead (this being understood to be a stand-in for ‘Miss’, not her forename, which I have never used). She of course would simply address me by my first name (I will use ‘Simon’), as she always did except when calling me ‘boy’ (usually an ominous sign).

We strolled through the park, making occasional conversation about the ducks, the trees with their autumn leaves and so on. I ached to know more about her, but I sensed that such prying questions would not be welcome. I caught myself starting the word ‘Governess’ once or twice and bit it off, to say ‘Miss’ instead, and I believe she noticed but did not react. We paused to sit on a bench, which I hurriedly tried to wipe down to remove the water droplets from an earlier shower. Alas, I was in too much of a hurry and had not done the job thoroughly.

“Do you expect me to sit in that puddle, Simon?” she asked, sharply.

“I’m sorry, Governess – uh, Miss!” I replied, without thinking.

“Do it again. Do it properly.” She said, curtly, and I set myself to polishing away at the wood with my sleeve, while she gazed coldly off into the distance.

When we were seated, she took out a small, leather-bound notebook and a pen. She wrote in it for a while, then wordlessly showed me the page. At the top it read “Simon’s faults, 11 October 1983.” A vertical line had earlier been ruled down the page, about two-thirds of the way across, dividing it into two columns. In the broader, left-hand column were two entries, each with a line drawn across the page underneath. The first read “Lazy and careless drying of bench.”, the second “Inappropriate mode of address (x3)”. I was right: she had indeed noticed my earlier verbal slips.

“Hush now” she said, putting the book away, and we sat in silence. Needless to say, I was in little doubt as to the purpose of the second column, which would surely later be filled in, with details of some painful consequences for the errors identified in the first!

“Let us continue.” she said after a while. “You may speak again from now.”

I did not think it wise to ask about the little book. Nor could I think of much to say, but soon enough my Governess started the light conversation again, pointing out the ivy clinging to some magnificent old trees.

“What sort of trees are they, Miss?” I asked, without thinking.

She stopped and frowned at me. Too late, I remembered writing some homework for her just a month before, including an essay titled “Trees of London”. She sighed and pulled out the notebook again.

I don’t know if was nerves, Goddess-Lady Lucia, or whether my natural male gawkishness simply came to the fore, but from that point on, I could barely put a foot right. The notebook came out three times more during our stroll in the park – once for accidentally bumping into her, once for failing to hold a gate open for a lady and once for ‘dawdling’, so I was glad when we left the park, to visit a restaurant she knew in Marylebone. We studied the menu for a while – I was ravenous and decided on the pork chops for myself.

When the waitress came, my Governess ordered first, as ladies do, then just as I was about to name my choice, my finger resting on the words ‘pork chops’ on the menu, she murmured “I expect you’d like to have the salad, Simon.” I managed to stop myself just as my lips were forming the letter p, and nodded, vigorously.

“Yes, salad for me.”, I croaked, my throat strangely dry.

The waitress visibly suppressed a giggle. “And to drink?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“A small glass of the house white, I think.” my Governess replied, folding the menu and handing it back. The waitress turned to me, her eyes dancing with fascinated amusement. Across the table, the eyes of my Governess – cool, grey – fixed me with a steady gaze.

“I… I think I’ll just have water” I stammered out. “Yes, just water for me, thanks.” And I handed back my own menu. Christ I’d have liked to have had a proper drink!

As the waitress went away, the notepad came out.

“You didn’t say ‘please’, Simon”, she noted, and I watched her write out “Discourteous behaviour to a woman.”. It was upside down from my side of the table but her handwriting, although small, was very neat and I had learnt to recognise every letter from small, and frequently alarming, comments written in red in the margins of my homework.

“I’m sorry, Miss…” I replied, hopelessly. “I did say thank you.”

She looked up at me in surprise. “Hush, Simon.” she said sharply, drew another line and wrote “Answering back!” She underlined that one twice, then turned the page over. The next page had the same division into columns and was otherwise blank. She wrote a neat “2” in the top right corner, started to put the notebook away then seemed to think better of it, and placed it on the table. It remained there throughout the meal, when not in use.

Sadly for me, it was used on several occasions. My table manners turned out to leave a great deal to be desired, as I started to eat before her and without permission and then ate ‘in a boorish manner”. Furthermore, in my efforts to avoid further discourtesy towards our waitress, I erred in the opposite direction, employing excessive servility and thus sounding weird. The waitress herself didn’t seem to mind at all; indeed she looked as if she was enjoying herself hugely, but it was all recorded in the notebook.

At the end, when my Governess had finished her coffee and petits fours and I had enjoyed yet another glass of tap-water, I paid, including an absolutely huge tip for the happiest waitress in Marylebone that day, and trailed out, following my imperious Governess.

I thought perhaps the shopping that was planned would be clothes or presents for her – I have heard of lady disciplinarians enjoying such all-expenses outings with their submissive clients. But in this, as in so much, my Governess defied stereotypes. Instead, the clothes to be bought were for me. Not, I hasten to say, some kind of fetish or girls’ clothes: ordinary menswear, but to my Governess’ taste rather than my own. It seems that for some years, she had found my garb irritating and was resolved to set matters right. Needless to say, I was no more able to choose the garments than I had been able to lunch on pork chops: having checked my sizes, my Governess simply selected items, handed them to me without discussion and, for the more important items, nodded towards the changing rooms. When I emerged in each outfit, I turned around several times, in response to her finger, then received either a nod or a shake of the head (or “Oh, I don’t think so” or similar) and was dismissed with a gesture. I don’t know whether the rule against behaving in an overly servile manner in public had been suspended, but it must surely have been obvious to everyone that I was an inferior and she was in charge. Indeed, in one shop in which I tried on several jackets, the shop assistant stopped even bothering to speak to me, and addressed himself only to her. The notebook, along with much sighing and even the occasional ‘tut-tut’ was in frequent use.

Finally, we went to a department store café, where my Governess had a cup of tea and I treated myself to another glass of refreshing tap water. When she pulled out the notebook and pen, I wondered what I had done this time, but instead of adding a new line at the end (which was now well down the third page), she flicked back to the beginning and started writing in the second column. She was putting in numbers and the letters, T, S and C after them. T was of course the tawse on my hands, S the strap across buttocks and thighs and C… well, it wasn’t going to be a cuddle. She did not take long deciding: briskly handing out multiples with the T, the S or the C, moving rapidly from one line top the next, until she had reached the end of page 3.

‘Add those up, please, Simon.” she said, dropping the notebook in front of me. I went through, totting up, with an increasing feeling of dread. At the end, I had discovered I would be in for 47 with the tawse, 54 with the strap and an awful 31 with the cane. I simply wrote the totals wordlessly and gave her back the book.

Whereupon she went through carefully totting up the figures herself. Why did she tell me to add them up, if she was going to do it herself, you might ask? Because she is my governess and I am her pupil. That is what she does and my work is always checked. As it turned out, I had indeed made a mistake: overcounting the Ts by one.

“Since you seem to want that one you can have it”, she shrugged. “Plus another four for sloppy arithmetic. When is our next meeting and for how long?”

“On Saturday, Miss” I replied (I had finally become quite good at keeping the speech rules). “Two ‘til four.”

“Better make it two ‘til six” she replied, folding the notebook and putting it away. And with that, we got the bill, I carried my new clothes out of the shop and respectfully said my goodbyes and thank-yous. To go home to sort out and throw out many of the clothes I had once chosen for myself, and to await the next Saturday, in a state of dread.

And yes, Goddess-Lady Lucia, I adore her and consider myself the luckiest man – or luckiest boy – alive.

With the deepest respect

‘Simon’.

It seems you have been taken properly in hand, Simon. I approve! Boys of any age are still boys, whether in the classroom or not, and need to be treated as such. You may pretend to be an adult man, behaving and even dressing as one in public, but I have no doubt that your Governess can always see the naughty schoolboy, fidgeting and blushing in front of her, when she looks into your eyes. You are permitted to write with further accounts of your educational journey. G-L. L.

Most esteemed Editrix

Like several of the ladies featured in your magazine, I make the subjection of males my career. Middle-aged to elderly men, all fairly well-off I suppose, make their way to my studios for the punishment, degradation and humiliation they need and I profit from the experience and generally enjoy it, too.

I wanted to share with you a recent event that made me wonder what the limits might be to this activity. One of my more recent slave acquisitions had made a booking to visit me, but he called two days before to cancel. He had a good excuse and had given fair notice, but on his next visit, when he paid me I half-jokingly suggested he should pay for the previous session too.

He immediately went crimson, kneeling on the floor before me and started to stutter something about how very sorry he was.

I replied imperiously that sorry wasn’t good enough, that he had wasted my time and presumed upon my good nature and so on, working up to an excuse to punish him, essentially, when to my surprise, he drew out his wallet with shaking hands. He reached in and offered up a small sheaf of banknotes.

Struck by inspiration, I commanded “One at a time! On the floor before my feet.”

Slowly, trembling, he counted out one note after another, until all that remained in his wallet were one-pound notes, which he knows I do not normally accept. I had observed his breathing as he slowly counted and recognised the symptoms: he was thoroughly aroused, completely in the humiliation ‘headspace’ he sought in session. So I continued.

“The ones as well.” I said, imperiously. And one by one he laid those out too. It was still not enough.

I reached down and held his chin, pulling his sweating face up so his slistening eyes stared into mine.

“Do you know what I should do to make up the shortfall, slave?” I hissed. “I should put a collar and leash on you, like a dog, and drag you outside and along to the bank where there’s a machine for you to take out the rest of the money you owe me. Then you’ll kneel before me – in the street, like this – and hand it over!”

His eyes were lolling back, he was more turned on than I think I’ve ever seen him.

“Please… please Mistress, may I?” he murmured. I understood and, not quite sure what exactly what we were to do with the rest of the session time, nodded curtly and he quickly rubbed between his trousered legs with his hands and rapidly came inside his pants.

I needn’t have worried about the rest of the session. I had an utterly happy, exhausted customer and he did not seem at all bothered that he had paid – twice, really – for an hour and had finished after fifteen minutes. It was as if my demands for his money were the most erotically humiliating thing he had ever experienced.

I suppose it makes sense. Men who are into female domination are in a way handing over power and in the modern world, what is the source of power? Money. For him, not being able to control how much he paid me was as much a sexually exciting humiliation as is experienced by a slave tied to my dungeon cross not being able to control his hands.

The next time he comes, I intend to try the cash machine thing. Without any too obvious sign of public D/S play of course. Perhaps even meet him just for that, then tell him to go away, as I think the ‘rip-off’ element is also part of the humiliation. Maybe in time, I can get him to pay for nothing at all in return; that would seem to be the logical culmination of his weird fetish.

Have you ever encountered this fetish, dear Lady? Are many male submissives ‘into’ the idea of a purely financial form of domination, do you suppose? It would certainly make the life of a professional dominatrix a lot easier if they were!

Yours in dominance

Mistress R

Thank you for this fascinating account, Mistress R. I have to confess, it is a new fetish to me! Much as I would love to have a line of male pigs queuing up to give me cash then depart with nothing to show for it but my contemptuous laughter, I fear that this ‘financial domination’ you describe is unlikely to catch on! Even males aren’t that stupid and gullible, with the exception of course of your sweaty client. But who knows? G-L. L.

P.S. Any of you degenerate perverts who do get off on knowingly wasting money in a femdom context may want to consider buying one or more of the shoddy competitor magazines to Empress, especially those American ones with colour images of bored-looking porn actresses wearing latex and holding whips.

Most revered Goddess-Lady Lucia

You may recall, a few months ago, you published a letter from me explaining how my initially playful disciplinary relationship with my Mistress-wife had become, in my mistaken view, oppressive. In particular, I foolishly complained about the participation of my mother-in-law in my wife’s efforts to make me a better husband. I would, in this letter, like to withdraw any implied criticism either of my beloved wife or her delightful mother and to apologise profusely to you, your readership and all of womankind for writing such ridiculous nonsense.

The publication of my letter had just one good effect, which was that it alerted my mother-in-law to my unfortunate misconceptions and thus provided her and my divine wife with the opportunity to correct them, for which I am profoundly grateful. I now realise how lucky I am not only to be married to a woman who is both willing and able to help keep me on the straight and narrow but also to benefit from the wisdom and strong right arm of her mother, under whose guidance my late father-in-law led a life of perfect fidelity and servitude.

I have many times reread the shockingly ungrateful sentiments I expressed in my previous letter and have found tears welling up in my eyes each time. No doubt I will again but I hope that with this follow-up letter, Goddess-Lady Lucia, I can at least reassure you and your readers that no man is entirely incorrigible, with enough determination.

In abject apology.

damien

You are not forgiven. No particular reason for that: although I often require males to apologise, profusely, I make it a policy never to accept those apologies. Nonetheless, I was pleased to read this account of your comeuppance; please convey to your wife and her mother my request that they place this page where you can read it while they each administer a 24-stroke caning on my behalf. I would greatly appreciate that kindness, if they would be so good. G-L. L.

Most sublime Goddess-Lady

Do you accept stories written by readers? I have some good ideas that I would love to send you.

Respectfully

Budding author

‘Accept’? Rarely. ‘Tolerate’ would be a better word. And I doubt you have ‘good’ ideas, being (I presume) male: ‘adequate’ is the best you can aspire to. All submitted material must conform to the Empress Submission Rules (not ‘Guidelines’: Rules) reproduced below. Most probably I will never even see your witless scrawlings: sub-editor slaves vet each submission and reject most of them as unworthy of my attention. However, I do encourage readers to submit stories: your lives are empty of meaning or purpose, so why not at least try to amuse me?

(Except ‘slave keith’, if you are reading this: your stories are entirely worthless, lacking originality or style, no doubt reflecting your personality, you tedious little man. Stop writing them, or at least just put them in your own rubbish bin rather than sending them to be thrown unread into mine, and save yourself the price of a postage stamp.)

G-L. L.

Empress magazine written submission Rules

Empress magazine is a female domination publication; only material featuring female dominants and male slaves/submissives will be considered.
The following themes are unacceptable: characters below the age of 18, female submission to males (mild lesbian D/S may be permitted as a minor element in a story featuring harsher treatment of males), male dominants (male ‘alpha’ characters may play a minor role in stories involving cuckoldry or forced homosexuality at the behest of a female dominant), fellatio (except as a forced homosexuality theme as noted above), males ‘winning’ in any way, mistreatment of cats, females engaged in housework (except very briefly, before turning the tables).
The following themes are permitted but should be dealt with unexplicitly for compliance with UK obscenity laws: torture, murder, castration or other mutilation, consumption of faeces, bestiality (all applying to males, obviously no female character should experience any of these).
Submissions must be typed, double-spaced on A4-sized paper. Stories featuring ‘schoolboy’ scenes must be accompanied by an identical hand-written copy.
Check your work carefully for misprints and grammatical erors. Then check it again, you incompetent fool: you missed some the first time. Don’t just cross them out: write it out again.
No correspondence or acknowledgement of submissions will be made. If you do not see your story printed in the magazine, it was rejected as being inadequate dross. Do not send follow-up letters asking for reasons for rejection: your story went in the bin, probably after reading the first few lines, no one remembers why or cares.
Stories printed in the magazine will not be credited to the authors and the copyright rests with Empress magazine. Obviously there is no question of paying you.
The Editrix reserves the right to edit stories freely, changing characters, plot or any other elements that particularly annoy her.
Do not capitalise dominants’ pronouns, or print ‘I’ in lower case. If you are not sure what a pronoun is, or are unclear about the grammatical rules regarding capitalisation in English, do not write stories for submission to this (or any other) magazine.
Do not enclose gifts or any other items in letters to the magazine. Goddess-Lady Lucia is prepared to accept gifts of cheques, only, made out to Leatherlust Publications Netherlands Ltd.
On rare occasions, successful authors will be instructed, in a note below the printed story, to submit a follow-up or sequel. If so instructed, you will submit the required article within three months of the magazine publication date, adhering to the specific instructions given. Do not submit a different story when you have been given a direct order in this manner: if you do not see your sequel printed, write a new version and try to do it right this time.

* Absent for now but Andy who owns and runs Cruella is scanning the old issues of Cruella and Goddess, right back to issue 1. Yes – this is what I have been waiting for for years! Wonderful. He just needs to get the payment system sorted out… hope he does so soon. Yes, I know they were 1990s not 1980s but so what – it’s Cruella, not pop music! PS – if anyone actually succeeds in finding a way to pay Andy and downloading them, let me know and I’ll go and shower him with gold… or an online credit card payment anyway, which is better in many ways.

** Now those have already been scanned and made available, you just need to go here and email the guy. He charges less in 2024 £s than they cost in £s at the time, which is pretty good.

Video killed the radio star

In my mind… and in my car, we can’t rewind, we’ve gone too far.

But we can rewind, you see, because we can return yet again to the 1980s.*

I’m all out of magazines at the moment, so I found a few old video cassette covers and thought I’d just stick those up on the blog. Beats working.

* The 1980s being – let’s face it – the best time for femdom as well as for music. What’s that you say? That it’s just nostalgia, conforming to the well-established psychological principle that we form the strongest mental impressions when adolescents, thus establishing a mental primacy for the culture of our teenage years? What a weird and over-analytical thing to say when surfing the Internet looking for porn to wank to. Are you sure you’re in the right place?

In a plain paper bag

Yet another post in which I lovingly, pointlessly, artlessly recreate a letters section from the magazines of my mis-spent late youth, such as Vixen and Mistress. I find it strangely satisfying… perhaps one day I will produce an actual fully faked mag, as a pdf. Or not. The stories were a little samey… then Cruella came along with better production values and wilder stories and blew my head away for the second time. Then OWK came along and did it all over again.

The title of course refers to the way the mags were wrapped after being taken to the counter in my shaking hand. Not plain brown paper, oddly enough, it was usually some kind of pastel shade or even flowery paper. I wonder if those bags had any use other than wrapping porn?

Anyway, I’m not here to witter on. Over to the Editrix herself, Goddess-Lady Lucia, back in the saddle (and digging her spurs in) after the one-off edition guest-edited by her mum.

Editorial

Male filth. Some of the less moronic of you, reading the last issue rather than merely ogling the pictures while engaged in revolting masturbation, might have spotted that the third page of the story Lady Ursula’s Riding School made little sense, in that Lady Ursula and her young trainee Rita leapt straight from racing carriages around a track, into bed with one another, then seemingly back to the race track again, all in the space of three columns.

It was, of course an error; and like all errors, the cause was an incompetent and lazy male. Empress is produced using a modern ‘linotype’ system (combined with an old-fashoned system of slavery), in which text is ‘typeset’ in a machine which then spools out each story as one long column on photographic paper. The column is then cut to length with a scalpel and then ‘pasted up’, together with the photographs, using hot wax. All of this, obviously, is done by slaves. Magazine slave 7 pasted the columns in the wrong order, the moron, and Magazine slave 2 who was supposed to check it, failed to do so. Because of this male incompetence, the error was left uncorrected by the time of printing.

But it was vigorously corrected afterwards, believe me! The hot wax used in ‘pasting up’ gave me an idea (actually, the scalpels gave me an idea first, but I did not want any trouble with the law). Magazine slave 7 is rather hairy…. well, he was. Now he is smooth (actually rather pimpled), and very red, all over. I took particular pleasure in pouring unusually hot wax all over his groin, then pulling his pubic hair out in big, satisfying, agonising handfuls. Magazine slave 2 is already hairless, being something of a sissy, so instead he wrote a 2000-word essay on ‘What a fucking useless piece of shit I am’, type-set it, spooled it out and then proceeded to eat the entire article, with a side-order of hairy wax from 7. They were then both caned and permitted to beg piteously to keep their (unpaid) jobs.

If any reader spots the slightest flaw in what should be a perfect magazine, he is commanded to write to me. I shall not be so lenient next time. G-L. L.

Letters

Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia

You have published several articles and letters from dommes describing their strangest clients; allow me to add my ‘Boot Boy’ to the collection.

Of course, boot and shoe worshippers are ten a penny (although they pay a lot more) but Boot Boy takes it to its purest essentials. He is a very easy client, although a certain amount of pre-session preparation is required, as I will explain. As the name suggests, I wear boots, sometimes of the stiletto-heeled fetish variety, but more usually ‘ordinary’ riding boots, for good reason as I shall explain! Our sessions are in his own house, as an ‘outcall’ (for which he pays extra) and either on the way there or earlier in the day, I make sure to get the boots good and muddy by walking through a muddy field – the squelchier the better. On arrival, he greets me wordlessly, I sweep into the house trailing muddy footprints and once he has removed my coat, I head for the living room. There, he serves me a drink then gets down on his hands and knees and carefully removes my boots. This done, I tie his hands behind his back.

He must now take the boots off away the hall, just outside the living room, and get the mud off. Obviously, with hands unavailable he has to carry the boots and then clean then with his mouth. It is actually quite difficult to clean anything just by licking and swallowing, if you think about it, as mostly the tongue just moves the dirt around. So, they are not by any means perfect when he has finished, but the large masses of mud should have been removed and swallowed (as should any bits that fell on the hall floor), leaving only a light sheen of muddy saliva. When he says he is done, usually after about an hour, he brings them in his mouth for inspection and if I am not satisfied, I slap his face (just once, but hard) and send him back to continue.

After a slap or two I am usually ready for him to move on to the next stage, in which I untie his hands, he goes off into a corner and applies himself to the boots using a more conventional kit of brushes, cloths and polishes. He generally does a pretty good job of that, to be honest, although I sometimes slap him and make him do it again even so. I try to be reasonably fair: if he knew that I was always going to reject his first attempt with a slap, it would become routine. All this time, I have a drink and some snacks that he left out and I usually have a book or magazine with me. So it is a very easy afternoon – but he pays for every minute!

When I have finally approved the boots, I indicate that he should put them back on my feet, which he does reverentially. I take one last, careful, quizzical look at both, turning my foot and leg to inspect his work. Then I either say “Very well: you may” or I slap him one last time and say “Not this time” and I get up and leave. If it is the former, his hand goes straight into his trousers and he masturbates. It is very quick; I can usually hear him finishing before I have my coat on and am out of the door. But I do not look back. If my final opinion is the negative one, he does not masturbate but just remains kneeling and still, while I go (no doubt he masturbates later).

And that’s it! I speak four or five times, deliver two or three hard slaps and have a pleasant afternoon catching up on some reading over a nice glass of wine! As I said, if there is any work involved, it’s in the muddy walk on the way, but that’s easy enough. There was an occasion one August when everything was too dry for mud and I had to ask a rather startled gardener if he would mind watering a mound of earth for me! But he is one of my favourite clients (I do hope he does not read your magazine!): no trouble to anyone and weird but harmless!

Yours muddily

Mistress Severe

Thank you for that fascinating account, Mistress Severe. I know that a lot of men enjoy licking boots, but even so it gives me great pleasure to watch the filthy pigs abasing themselves and performing this demeaning activity. Males are smelly, dirty, disgusting animals but some of them occasionally forget how they appear to us, the superior sex, so it is a good idea to remind them of their true nature. Even if your boot boy is getting perverted pleasure from the experience, he is at least paying for it. Can you imagine how your teenage self would have felt, at the thought that in a few years’ time men would be paying to lick the mud from your boots? They say that if you love what you do, you’ll never have to work a day in your life, and that has certainly been my experience and I hope it is yours too. G-L. L.

Most superior Goddess-Lady

Like many submissive men, I am abjectly grateful for your wonderful magazine. Like most of your readers, I suppose, I am obsessed with being controlled, punished and abused by a woman. I believe I can trace the development of this obsession to my early childhood.

When I was just five and six, we spent two summers in Scotland with relatives and it was there I met my distant cousin Elspeth. A fiery redhead one year older than me, she was in charge from the start and I loved it. There was obviously nothing sexual in our games. Nor, I think, can they be considered ‘bullying’ but they usually ended with her sitting on me, or even with me tied to a tree (playing cowboys and Indians, or spies… or almost anything really – we were on a farm and there was plenty of rope around).

Then after two glorious summers (as I remember them through the rose-tinted spectacles of nostalgia but it was Scotland so there was probably a lot of rain) we started holidaying elsewhere and I did not see Elspeth for twelve years although I often thought of her. Then, when I had just turned eighteen, there was a family gathering to pay respects to my great-aunt, who had reached her eighties, and I was startled to hear a Scottish lilt behind me saying my name, turned around, and there was Elspeth. I suppose she was nineteen and she was stunning.

We escaped the elderly throng and walked off through some nearby woods. My heart was pounding, but we talked of inconsequential things and reminisced. At one point she said “I’m afraid I was pretty cruel to you when we played as kids.” To which, without thinking, I blurted out “Oh no – I liked it!”.

After a very brief moment, she gripped my hand tightly and led me off the path into the woods, until she found a patch of grass in a secluded spot. There, she pushed me to the ground and laughingly lowered herself onto my heaving chest.

“Did you like it when I did this? I’m heavier now, mind.”

I could hardly breathe, but I gasped out my assent. She giggled, and shuffled back until her weight was supported by my groin. Crushed as it was, my penis responded forcefully – I was sure she must be able to feel it and I was horrified by the thought that I might even ‘go off’. It was hard to imagine anything more embarrassing. She giggled again, drew up her legs (somehow further focusing her weight on my straining groin) and took off her shoes. Then she stood up and started to wriggle out of her woollen tights,

“I don’t think we should do that here” I said, for some reason that for now completely escapes me. Possibly fear: I was still a virgin.

And would remain one for the moment, as it turned out, because she just laughed and said “Filthy-minded boy!”. She pulled at the tights between her hands, testing their strength and their give, and murmured “No rope here, is there?”

Soon I was tied to a tree by my wrists, just as in our childhood games. Unlike those games, she then proceeded to undo and pull down my trousers and – over my plaintive objections – my pants.

“Filthy, filthy little boy!” she said again, as my engorged member bobbed free. As I stammered out apologies, she reached out and detached a thin green shoot from the tree.

“Where you beaten much in school?” she asked, her eyes trained on the branch from which she was stripping the leaves and twigs,

“No, never” I replied. “The school didn’t really believe in it. Two boys got the cane once for being caught in town out of hours but…”

She was now flexing the switch and when she saw me looking, smiled and swished it through the air with a whirring sound.

“What are you going to do with that?” I asked stupidly,

“Whip you, of course” she replied. “Whip your naughty bottom. You know you need it. I expect you play with yourself, don’t you?”

“No!” I gasped.

“No, you don’t play with yourself or no, don’t whip me?” she asked, coolly.

“Don’t whip me!” I gasped.

“Ohhh… so you do play with yourself?” she laughed in that delightful Scottish lilt. “Well, then, you certainly deserve a good thrashing. But if you really don’t want me to whip you, just say so, I’ll untie you and we can go back to the house.”

I said nothing, my mind a whirr.

“All you have to do” she said “Is say, I don’t want to be whipped, please Elspeth, let’s just go back to the house.”

I said nothing again, accepting my fate.

“Right then” she said, grinning with delight. “Turn around and face the tree!”

“No!” I shouted.

“Fine, don’t turn around then” she shrugged and raised the switch as if to deliver a cut right across my waving member. I hastily turned around, just in time to receive the first slash across my buttocks. I cried out.

“Shh!” she said, sounding really concerned. Not for me, but for fear of being discovered, I imagine. “If you can’t keep quiet, I’ll need to gag you.”

“OK Elspeth, I’ll try” I mumbled and was rewarded with another slash which made me scream all the harder.

“Wimp” she said in disgust. “Right…. what can I gag you with… oh, of course”

The cotton knickers stuffed into my mouth were wet – and I didn’t understand the significance of that at the time. But they did the job and I was able to ‘take’ the rest of the thrashing with my teeth clenched, emitting muffled groans as she cracked the branch across my poor buttocks.

Eventually it was over (possibly because her makeshift implement was disintegrating, rather than any sense of mercy on her part) and I soon found myself once again lying face up on the ground, she first towering over me, then settling down again on my groin. The difference this time being that neither of us was wearing underwear.

Obviously, I came almost immediately, to my shame, and I was still stammering out my apologies when her skirt enclosed my head and I was given a lengthy opportunity to make amends. When that was done, I was erect again and she shifted back and this time it went better. Except that when I was fully in, she leaned forward and started steadily slapping my face, back and forth, hard, until I came. Then my face disappeared under the darkness of her skirt again and this time she turned around, so she could face my lower half – to slap at my thighs and – horrifically in that post-orgasmic state – occasionally my cock and balls. With Elspeth pain – my pain – and pleasure were obviously intimately connected.

Soon after that, we had to finish and we made our way back to the house. I offered her her knickers back, but she wrinkled her nose at the saliva sodden mass of cotton and let me keep them. She put her woollen tights back on, though, for appearances’ sake, which must have been a bit uncomfortable, without the cotton underwear. But not as uncomfortable as my stinging bum and aching genitals!

She and her family left that night and to my horror I learnt that they had only been there as a good-bye before moving to Australia, where she was to attend university. I cried for months. I won’t say exactly what I did with the knickers… but I kept them, of course. I still have them today.

And that’s… really it. I am now in my late forties and I have never again met a girl – or woman – who enjoyed these games the way Elspeth did. So I visit ladies whom I pay to act these scenes out and that’s… OK.

I met her just once again. It was another family event – perhaps even the funeral of the same great-aunt, who had lived to a ripe old age (strong female genes in our family). Elspeth was there but I only got to speak to her in a circle of nattering relatives. She recognised me and smiled that smile that had haunted my dreams and then, just when I was about to suggest we go somewhere to talk, she said “You must meet my husband, Paul.”

Paul was a pleasant, unassuming man. He was a little like me, I later thought. I didn’t really have the chance to get to know him, though, as they had to leave early.

“Come along, Paul. Get the bags and we’d better head off” she remarked without looking at him. He hurried over to the corner and picked up a couple of bags, then somehow got engaged in conversation with an elderly relative.

“PAUL!” she snapped, from the doorway and his head jerked upwards in shock, his eyes wide in what I can only describe as fear.

“Coming dear, sorry dear” he stuttered, and hurried over to the door and off they went. There was some amused discussion and I distinctly heard the word “henpecked” from several quarters.

Fools: how could they fail to see that Paul was the luckiest man alive?

Yours longingly

Gerald

That was actually rather sweet, Gerald. Good boy. I hope one day you find a woman who treats you the way you deserve. Oh dear me, am I going soft? Better go and find a slaveboy to beat. G-L. L.

Dear Goddess-Lady Editrix

What is the most important quality you look for in a slave?

Respectfully

Humbled

Slaves don’t have important qualities, idiot! G-L. L.

Dear Empress

I run a tattooing business in London. Lately, I have begun to specialise in the femdom ‘scene’, despite that not being my own ‘thing’, so I bought a few issues of your magazine in order better to understand my clients and their interests. I thought it might be of interest how femdom couples use tattoos, in my experience. [And, no doubt, you hope to drum up trade for your sordid little business. But this is interesting, so I will allow it. G-L. L.]

When I was first asked to tattoo a ‘slave’, accompanied or not by his ‘mistress’, I had some concerns about consent. Although sometimes the man would be arranging his own tattoo as a gift to his dominant, some were clearly carrying out her wishes (and in some cases were not even aware of the precise content of the pattern they were due to receive). However, it became clear to me that they had all ‘consented’ in a sense, a deeper sense, and so they are asked to sign the form like any other client and that is that.

I would say there are three ‘levels’ of tattoo a submissive male might receive. Level 1 is a ‘normal’ tattoo as might be worn as a sign of commitment by any vanilla client: the lady’s name, perhaps surrounded by flowers or within a heart, messages such as ‘Devotedly yours’ and so on. Although such motifs are outwardly innocuous, I have no doubt that it is of very deep submissive significance for the man I am inking to bear the name of his dominant in this way.

The second level is a discrete but unambiguous statement of the man’s role in the lifestyle. There is no simple dividing line: a snaking whip or pairs of handcuffs might replace the flowers and hearts, for instance, as a very light-touch signifier of status. More usually, however, I consider it a level two femdom tattoo if it includes the word ‘slave’ or ‘property’ or similar. It is obvious that getting such a tattoo is a powerful symbol and statement of a man’s submission, and my male clients often seem to be in a state of rapture as it is applied and on first seeing the end result. Accompanying ladies usually also seem to regard it as a significant occasion and there is usually some touching scene involving kneeling, boot-kissing and suchlike. In general, I try to gently indicate that a tattoo shop may not be the best place for that. However, on one occasion I was asked to apply several ‘level twos’ in a club as part of a ‘collaring ceremony’, along with other parts of a ritual such as vows, the collar itself of course and – finally – a whipping. Not for me, any of it (especially the last part) but I’ll confess I found the ceremony oddly moving.

Examples of such second-level tattoos might be simple statements such as “Slave X, property of Mistress Y” or “House Slave No. 3 in Lady Y’s domain” to the more ornate “Slave X, formerly [Name], freely and wholly offered to Mistress Y on [date]” this last being the inscription on the ‘collared’ slave I described earlier. Such motifs are usually placed high on the buttocks or on the chest above a nipple, or both. Another common place is the lower buttock, just above the thigh – and I always ask whether this is intended to be viewed with the male standing up, or bent forward (as the skin stretches in the latter position, so it is important to know). Thus far, I can report 100% responses indicating the latter, although I still always ask! Many dominants like to sign their slaves’ tattoos, although this is usually best done on a piece of paper for me to ink in, the tattooing pen being a little tricky to use smoothly without practice.

A level 3 is much the same but usually a larger and more blatant declaration of slavery. By far the most common place for such a statement is the lower back, typically right across the width of the two buttocks below. Generally, the lettering is large and somewhat brutal… no one changing at the swimming pool could miss the letters SLAVE blazoned across the lower back with the typical level 3. One lady has had three of her disciples tattooed with the rather officious “Property of Mistress X, not to be used for sexual or any other purposes without the explicit permission of the owner. Please report any misbehaviour to “– and it provided her phone number. Many use numbers and letters as slave designations, or insulting names such as “Bootlicker”, “Moron” or “Cockroach”.

Incidentally, having mentioned buttocks I have to remark that many of those in front of me seem to be in a pretty bad condition! Reddened, bruised, whipped, flogged with a cane… even if I do see something in the devotional aspects of the relationship I cannot myself understand the appeal of subjecting oneself to this. But each to his own. Sometimes it matters for the tattoo: on one occasion the man in front of me removed his pants to reveal a criss-cross of raised fresh weals from a cane, right where I was supposed to be recording his love for the lady who had presumably inflicted them. I had to explain that I could not reliably tattoo over such ridged flesh, as the tattoo would distort when the skin healed and returned to normal. I could also have added that the buzz of the tattooing pen on what must have been a painfully sore area would be pure agony – but judging by the lady’s demeanour, I doubt she would have seen that as a reason not to go ahead!

Of course, there are other places a submissive can be tattooed… especially in the groin area. As a heterosexual male I am never comfortable working in such close proximity to the male sexual organs… especially as so many of these clients clearly get very excited during the process. However, the clients presented to me for work in this area often raise (ha ha) no such concerns, as their penises are usually locked neatly away in a device. Such clients are often quite effeminate ‘sissies’ with perfectly shaven pubic areas. Little pretty hearts, fairies or stars are usually the order of the day here, although quite often I am commissioned to write short insulting pieces of text concerning the properties of the organ below, or its unavailability. One memorable tattoo involved a large, colourful image of an erect penis, in glorious reds and purples, emerging from the plastic ring securing the tube in which the real thing was locked, extending about nine inches up the ‘sissy’s’ front and labelled “So much better!” Assuming the poor chap is occasionally unlocked for some kind of sexual relief, he can presumably see his actual organ standing up as far as it might in some kind of direct comparison. I doubt it is a flattering one.

There are things I will not do. No tattoos to the face (no reputable shop will do that), no ‘explicit’ tattoos to any part of the body that is generally visible outside day-to-day clothing. [Almost the entirety of my slaves’ bodies is generally visible outside their ‘day-to-day clothing’. G-L. L.] I do not carry out ‘piercings’ although obviously many other places do and some of the requests for that are pretty wild [Oh don’t be coy. Are we talking about a permanent chastity fitting? G-L. L.]. And perhaps I could take this opportunity to state for the record: no, I will not ‘brand’ your slave with red-hot iron! It’s not a common request, thank goodness, but I have had several couples arriving with long metal rods whose ends are worked into letters or simple designs. On one occasion, the lady had brought her own blowtorch and seemed most disappointed that I was not comfortable with the idea of using it to heat her “LS” brand to flesh-searing temperatures, then inflicting third-degree burns on her slave. [Oh, I would be. Very comfortable. G-L. L.] I have to say, on every single occasion, the accompanying male has looked mightily relieved at my refusal to carry out such activities, although one swiftly changed that to a thoroughly unconvincing expression of disappointment under the angry glare of his dominant. I don’t envy his lot.

So, there you have it! I hope you will not object to this slightly self-promoting letter. [If you were one of my slaves it would be classed as ‘permitted but punishable’, G-L. L] It is important to choose a reputable and safe tattooist and while there are many of those, few are experienced in meeting the… particular needs of your readership. I hope to see many of them in future.

Yours sincerely

Robin Attwood, Inkerman Tattoos, Little Compton St, London W1.

All of my slaves are tattooed and pierced and your letter reminds me that it is really about time I had them branded. Typesetting this response and getting this edition ready for printing is the first notice they are getting of this, so I hope their hands are trembling in fear!Mistresses and slaves with experience of branding are particularly encouraged to write in. As for you, currently unowned male Robin, pay for an ad next time. G-L. L.

Dear GL

Do you think your magazine could please, please feature more lesbian discipline?

Sapphic admirer

If, as I suspect, you mean women punishing women for your viewing pleasure, the short answer is no. I cannot really give you the long answer, because you are not chained to a whipping post in my dungeon. The magazine features lesbians enjoying each other, features lesbians disciplining males, features males being disciplined by lesbians, and in my exalted opinion (which is the only one that counts – in this magazine as in life) those seem to me to cover the only relevant topics. G-L. L.

Dear sister

I have seen several accounts in your excellent magazine of ‘toilet training’, ‘golden rain’; and the like from males but none from the female perspective. As the dominant partner in our marriage, I thought you might be interested in how my husband Simon and I became involved in this activity.

It was my idea, not his. Indeed, he didn’t know it was coming. We had been married about two years and our relationship had developed well beyond the ‘playful spanking’ stage into a more serious exploration of subjugating the male. But I was well aware that it could be taken a lot further and I knew that my friend Janice and her slave husband Robert made use of this humiliating technique, so I arranged to go over to their place for dinner.

Simon was well aware that Janice’s disciplinary regime was rather stricter than ours and was on his very best behaviour. So when she peremptorily ordered him to accompany her to the bathroom with a snap of her fingers, he quickly glanced at me and on my nod of approval, scurried after her. “You can use the one upstairs if you need it” she smiled at me on the way out.

Upstairs, I tried my first experience of using a male as a receptacle and I found is so odd that I couldn’t bring myself to produce more than a dribble. Robert of course had been perfectly attentive and tried his best to relax me but it just wasn’t going to happen. I pulled my knickers back up and we headed back downstairs, Robert asking nervously whether I was going to tell Janice what had happened. I imagine he was terrified she might think it was his fault and I was about to reassure him but then remembered how much Janice liked to keep him on his toes, so I said nothing and let him fret. Neither Janice nor my husband were anywhere to be seen in the drawing room, so I went into the bathroom to be greeted by a sight I’ll never forget.

Janice was standing there, knickers off and leather skirt up, holding a riding whip. Simon, on the other hand, was on his knees immobilised into some kind of frame that held his arms and legs and bent his back into a tight curve, leaving his face pointing nearly upwards. From that face protruded a large plastic funnel, its spout firmly jammed into his mouth by a strap buckled around his head. On the floor near him were several puddles of what was clearly urine and one of his thighs was striped with savage crop-marks. These, Janice told me with mock severity (but clear enjoyment) were connected: the crop on the thighs being her standard remedy for ‘spillages’.

On seeing me, Simon began to gurgle and try to form words around the funnel, rocking slightly from side to side to the extent his restraints permitted, which was not much. Janice raised the crop menacingly and he went instantly silent, quivering slightly, his eyes gazing up at the two of us. Suddenly, I felt a terrific urge to ‘go’.

Is there a limit to how wide eyes can open? Simon’s had already been round and staring when I entered the tiny room, but they grew appreciably larger and rounder as I worked my panties down, then – impossibly – larger still as I manoeuvred myself into position and looked straight down at him. And then I peed into my husband’s mouth. It was… wonderful.

It was also a mess. He gurgled and shook and drops of urine flew about. The funnel was filling much faster than it was emptying, so it became rather full and, towards the end, his shaking movements caused a major spill. When I had finished, Janice silently handed me the crop and I learned over to deliver a crack across his other, unmarked thigh. It was appreciably less red and angry-looking than the marks she had produced and although he yelped, I got a distinct sense that he was relieved it had not been worse. So I lifted the crop again, gave it my all and really thwacked the leather loop onto his soft inner thigh. This time there was a distinct scream – it was the hardest I had ever hit him at that time. Well, he was experiencing a lot of firsts that night. I gave him another three or four just the same way.

I did wonder whether, once released, he might rebel and tell me this was too much., After all, our relationship had only recently progressed beyond sexy games and if he had protested, I wasn’t really in a position to force him – we didn’t use the word ‘slave’ habitually back then. But he did not. He was very subdued on the way home and rather quiet the whole week. Neither of us mentioned the activity… Then the weekend after, I left a funnel in the bathroom and ordered him in. When I strode in, he was looking at it in dismay. I showed him the brand-new crop I had bought during the week and he hurriedly got on his knees and put the funnel into his mouth.

And we’ve never looked back! Oh, the first few weeks were horribly messy. I never rigged up quite such a rigid frame to hold him as he had experienced that first night at Janice’s so we had a lot of spillages. But this just gave me an opportunity to use the crop frequently and hard, taking the disciplinary side of our relationship to a new level, which I think it had needed for some time. Eventually, Simon learned not to spill and even to do without the funnel. Indeed, these days I rarely pee into the toilet at home, instead simply clicking my fingers and settling forward in my chair for him to scurry over, get down on his knees, remove my knickers and get to work. Sometimes I pull my skirt up, so I can watch him gulping and swallowing, other times I like to let the skirt fall right over him, so his entire upper body is invisible: my handy receptacle. When I am finished, he licks me clean and I usually have an orgasm.

One funny thing is how quickly it changed our relationship. Up until then, we had behaved as near-equals when not actively engaged in BDSM. But I remember one day over breakfast, reading the paper, and he ventured a remark about the latest political scandal and I just burst out laughing. My toilet was expressing his political opinion! It was simply too absurd. Men take themselves so seriously, but how can anyone be taken seriously after you have peed in him?

Yours in sisterhood

Gemma

Dear Gemma, I couldn’t agree more! I’ll never go back to cold lavatory seats now. It is also a solution to the problem we ladies often encounter of inadequate public facilities for us (something that will be addressed – and retribution exacted – when we take over). Men are ludicrously proud of the fact that they can pee in the nearest bush. Fine: we can pee in the nearest man. G-L.L.

Most exalted Editrix Lucia

I am writing to ask your advice, since I cannot mention my ‘lifestyle’ in any more conventional public forum. My wife and I have long made use of spanking and other disciplinary games in our sex lives. Gradually, these activities have extended more into our day-to-day lives too as she took control of the family finances and started occasionally giving me a ‘real’ punishment, unrelated to sex. On one of these occasions, she produced a cane and gave me a few strokes with it, which I found to be of a completely different nature from the pain produced by any of the implements she had used before: hairbrushes, belts and the like. I told her that the cane was too much for me and she (rather reluctantly) agreed never to use it on me again.

I have long been locked in chastity and she has occasionally brought men home for the night; a night I typically spend out of sight (but not, alas, out of range to hear what is going on) in an attic room. These have normally been one-night stands or occasional; short flings – nothing serious, merely physical, as she likes to say, knowing perfectly well how maddening it is that this merely physical pleasure is unavailable to me, except on the increasingly rare occasions when she decides to produce the key and I am ‘rewarded’. However, recently she has taken a lover, Arthur, in a relationship that is more serious, and she has made him aware of our lifestyle.

Naturally, I find Arthur’s presence objectionable, but as I serve him and my wife their dinner before he leads her giggling upstairs, I am in no position to object. I do find it difficult to conceal my feelings, though, and my wife has had to speak sharply to me – and apply some firm discipline – on several occasions. We have an agreement that she does not punish me in front of other people, so this has always been after Arthur has left the house.

The other evening, however, everything changed. After dinner, my wife told me to fetch the cane from our ‘play cupboard’, where it had hung unused for some years. My head was in a whirl, but something in her voice told me it was better not to object. When I returned and handed her the horrible thing, though, I started to stammer out objections until I was struck dumb with horror when she handed the cane to Arthur, who proceeded to bend and swich it approvingly.

My wife coolly explained to me that she had been thinking and that although our agreement prohibited her from caning me, or in any way disciplining me in front of Arthur, there was nothing that said she could not ask him to cane me – and that was what was going to happen. I hardly had time to process what was going on, before I was bent over the table, my wife using her weight to hold me down – and a few seconds later I was screaming and begging frantically for mercy as the bamboo cracked hard across my trouser seat. I suppose I should be grateful I did not have to remove my trousers, but it was a horrific experience nonetheless. After the traditional six, I was allowed to stand up (I staggered) and thanked him, before they went upstairs – my wife looking even more aroused than usual. I tidied up, my poor bottom finding each movement agony, then went to cry myself to sleep, face-down of course.

Although the next time Arthur came round, I was not caned, I was ominously warned as they went upstairs that my behaviour was acceptable ‘this time’. Clearly, my wife intends this to become a standard part of our disciplinary regime – which has turned from a sexy dream for me to a nightmare! In fact, just the other day I woke up in a cold sweat, gasping in terror, after a dream in which Arthur was methodically beating me with the cane, with my wife looking on and laughing.

Goddess-Lady Lucia, I need to say something to my wife, to Arthur, or to both of them, about this. I can see that our agreement does not explicitly cover this situation, but it seems utterly unfair of her to exploit this loophole, taking advantage of my trusting nature. But I thought I would ask a second opinion, and as I can hardly talk to colleagues at work, I am asking yours. Do you think this is fair?

Anxious, Yeovil.

No, Anxious, I don’t think that sounds fair at all. It is really horribly unfair, in fact. I love it! I hope Arthur beats you savagely, the next time you misbehave. I would so like to be there to watch! Then afterwards, perhaps you could plead with your wife to rescind all these ridiculous ‘agreements’ with their pettifogging restrictions on what she can do, and she will cane you herself. Don’t imagine she will be any easier on you than he is, though: my guess is that after all these years of treating you more leniently than you deserve, she will want to make up for lost time. I know I would. G-L. L.

Of a certain age

Once again, Servitor has spent an absurd and disproportionate* amount of time engaged in the pointless task of creating the letters section from a fictional version of those very British femdom magazines with which he mis-spent his young adulthood: Vixen and Mistress**. No, not Cruella. This was before Cruella. Yes: I am that old.

* But then I am an absurd person, with many body parts comically disproportionately sized and generally funny-looking.

** Available as pdfs at an absurdly low price from Swish Publications.

So, once again, from an alternative universe in about 1988 or so, I present: Empress magazine.

This one is a special edition, as I will grovellingly now beseech the Glorious Editrix, Goddess-Lady Lucia herself, to explain.

Right, male scum, pay attention! As promised in the last edition, this is a special ‘maternal domination’ issue of Empress (‘Dowager Empress’, perhaps?), for all you immature little mummy’s boys who crave the firm smack of domestic discipline. Infantilisation is not quite my thing – I find men to be quite infantile enough already – and any male who thinks I’m going to change his wet nappy is going to find himself running a half-marathon through the streets with the stinky thing glued over his head and his back a mess of whip-marks. However, Empress celebrates all forms of male subjugation, so I am handing the reins (and the whip) over to the most wonderful and inspirational woman in the world: my Mum, Lady Amelia. Goddess-Lady Lucia.

Thank you, Lu! Amy here, delighted to have this opportunity to contribute to my daughter’s wonderful magazine. I am so proud of what she has achieved: with no assistance from anyone else, she blackmailed the startup funding out of a businessman, enslaved several copy-editors then set up a weekly detention session for writers to produce what is now surely Britain’s leading magazine celebrating female dominance. She has always been a go-getter… I think she takes after her father in that regard. I’ll admit I’m not sure, as I barely knew him and mainly remember his cock and his remarkable sexual stamina. She certainly doesn’t take after my actual husband who I suppose was technically her step-father when she was growing up, the useless whining little wimp. But Lu was always special, why I remember when she brought her first boyfriend home. He was already sniffling in fear when dragged through the doorway on a leash, but then she took him upstairs and –

MUM?! You’re not here to embarrass me! Letters section? G-L. L.

Oh, very well, my dear. I expect you’re right. You usually are. Lady Amelia.

I’m always right, Mum. Ask any of my slaves. G-L. L.

Of course you are! Now then…. letters, was it? Let’s have some letters. L.A.

Dear Madame Editrix

I was delighted to see that you propose to devote an edition of your wonderful publication to maternal discipline. Some may regard this as ‘the softer side’ of female domination. I do not and nor – I can state with confidence – does my thoroughly subjugated husband. He has no one but himself to blame for his condition (and no one to thank for it but me – and he does thank me, daily) because soon after we were married he asked if we could incorporate some ‘sexy spanking’ into our lovemaking. Well, how could I say no? I hauled him across my lap and spent a thoroughly enjoyable ten minutes exercising my right arm.

When I finally released him, and after he had dried his tears and got his breath back, he explained that he preferred a light, playful spanking. So I grabbed him by the ear, dragged him over to the bed where I once more positioned him across my lap, took hold of a hairbrush from the bedside table (the palm of my hand feeling somewhat warm by then) and proceeded to turn his rosy arse purple, while explaining that I very strongly preferred it this way.

He asked the next day whether we could ‘discuss it’. So discuss it we did, in the same position and with the same hairbrush. That was, I think, the last time he challenged my right to spank him however I see fit and we have been married for over twenty years now.

I do not ‘baby’ him or provide maternal comfort. But I certainly treat him like the little boy he truly is. Quite apart for the spankings, which I mainly deliver by hand, my palms having hardened over the years, I employ corner time, written line punishments, early bedtimes and even occasionally castor oil to keep him fully conscious of his status within the family hierarchy. As time went on, I started to get more and more sexual satisfaction from the discipline too, so a hard spanking almost invariably finishes with his wet, tear-streaked face, pressed between my thighs as his tongue ‘finishes me off’. So in a way he got his ‘sexy spanking’ after all, didn’t he?

In sisterhood

Joanna

What a well-ordered family life, Joanna! Like you, I discovered that the ‘softer’ side of femdom can develop into something deliciously ‘hard’, even if my style of domination does not involve whips, leather boots, pony-carts and the like. Corner time, early bedtimes and written punishments make up an important part of his life, if ‘life’ is really the right word for such a miserable existence. Of course, he has much useful work to do as well, but when all the housework is done to my complete satisfaction, he sometimes has a few hours still available and I make sure to fill them with tedious and uncomfortable activity. If he’d wanted any ‘free time’ he shouldn’t have married me, after all. But he did, so that’s that. Amy, Lu’s Mum.

‘Lady Amelia’, Mum! You don’t want the absurd wankers who read this magazine getting too familiar! G-L. L.

Sorry darling! Lady Amelia.

Most Superior Editrix

I thought your readers might be interested in the account of a rather bizarre encounter I had recently. Having seen a card in a phone box promoting the services of ‘Matron Stern’, I nervously called, made an appointment and, a few days later, turned up in great trepidation at a nondescript house in a London suburb.

To my surprise and relief, the door was opened by a petite and pretty young brunette, who smilingly took my coat along with the envelope stuffed with fivers, while I removed my shoes. She asked me to confirm that I wanted ‘strict treatment’ from ‘Matron Stern’, as I had requested when I called and I readily agreed, betting that this young nymph’s idea of strictness was probably quite light. ‘This way’ she said and led me upstairs. ‘Mum’s in here’ she said, knocking on a door.

‘Mum’? But it was too late. The door was opened from inside the room and I beheld… Matron Stern. I could see something of the family resemblance, with the addition of at least one hundred pounds, powerful and course looking arms and an expression that indeed matched her professional name. Admittedly this was approximately what I had expected when I made the booking, if somewhat more fearsome, and I had no thought of trying to back out but I might perhaps have taken an involuntary step backward… before my ear was grabbed between a powerful thumb and forefinger and I was dragged, stopping, into the room. I heard a cheerful ‘Let me know if you need me, Mum’, as the door closed behind me… I certainly felt the need of some support!

After a remarkably painful spanking ‘to establish who was boss’ (although I had been in no doubt of that the moment I saw her), the medical ‘treatment’ began. I won’t describe all of the details but the enemas were particularly noteworthy, so I will concentrate on those.

I had noticed during the painful preliminaries the rubbery bags of different pastel shades, each with its tube hanging down, arranged neatly in a rack. Some of the bags were alarmingly large, so it was a relief when Matron Stern selected one of the smaller ones. Nonetheless, it was a startling experience. I had once been given an enema as a child, by a nurse at the local clinic, when I had a particularly bad bout of constipation. I remembered it as feeling weird but not necessarily unpleasant, as the warm water gently flowed into me. This was somewhat different. For one thing, the tube had a bulb at its head, which felt uncomfortably tight as she shoved it in – yet shoved it was. Second, the water was cold, stone cold and I gasped as it started to flow. Third, she lifted the bag high above me and furthermore, gave it a good squeeze, both of which caused the water to rush inside me much faster than the gently rising tide I recall from childhood. I cried out involuntarily at the feeling of immense and sudden fullness… followed by the simply impossible feeling of the water continuing to flow and fill me, when I would have sworn that my insides were full to bursting.

Eventually it stopped, the tube was jerked out and she curtly indicated a toilet in the corner of the examination room. I rushed to it gratefully and had just sat sown when I heard “Don’t you dare release without permission, or you’ll be for it!”

I could only gape in astonishment, as the foul brown liquid spurted out of me into the waiting bowl. I could no more have held it than I could hold back a waterfall! The smell was thoroughly unpleasant but not as unpleasant as the bath brush applied repeatedly to my thighs, for disobedience, once the nasty mess had been flushed away.

I was given the opportunity (or rather, I was compelled) to try again. Again, the cold water rushed in, again it seemed to continue far beyond my capacity and yet again all of the water went in… and this time I managed to ‘hold’ for perhaps two seconds after getting onto the toilet, before once again a splashing rush betrayed my blatant disobedience. At least this time there was hardly any smell… but the spanking was worse, this time extended to the insides as well as the reddened backs of my thighs.

‘Would you like some help holding it in next time?’ she asked, curtly? Looking at the bath brush in her powerful hand, I could only nod yes, although I’ll confess to being dismayed by the ‘next time’. However, help was welcome as I clearly had no chance of obeying a command to hold it in – especially when, for the third attempt, she selected a rather larger bag than before. However, despite the larger volume this time did not feel quite so bad – whether because I was psychologically getting used to it or because my insides were stretching! I caught sight of myself in the mirror: on her examination table on knees and elbows, smacked arse and red-raw thighs held up high and a tube snaking up to where the bad was discharging its contents. It seemed impossible to imagine that less than an hour before, I had been an ordinary man in a suit, ordering a coffee in a local café while waiting to present myself for this bizarre appointment.

I wondered how she was planning to ‘help’ when, for the third time, the tube was jerked away – but this time, almost immediately, something else was shoved in. Another bulbous object, about the same diameter as the tube-head. At first. Then I saw her making pumping actions with her hand and to my horror I felt it expanding inexorably inside my anus. I realised there was another bulb just outside my exit and that was inflating too. Just when it seemed I might burst inside, she stopped and something was detached, leaving me firmly plugged, inside and out.

I expect most readers have experienced a desperate need for the toilet. This felt ten times worse. The plug, although physically preventing any evacuation, did nothing to diminish the urge. Bent forwards there on the table, I was just beginning to wonder whether I should beg her to remove it when I was commanded to stand up and I discovered that the pressure feels even worse when the blocked exit is facing down, with all the weight of that liquid pressing down on it. For some reason, I couldn’t stand straight, I crouched before her with legs bent, gasping.

‘Please, please Matron Stern…’ I stammered, to be cut off with a hard slap to the face. ‘It’s not me you have to ask’, she informed me. ‘Go and ask Natalie’.

It is an indication of how hopelessly befuddled I was that I had no idea who she meant. But she indicated the door with a finger and I understood that – humiliatingly – I was going to have to ask the pretty young lady downstairs for permission to evacuate my distended bowels. I was fitted with a nappy – because, as she said Natalie was ‘not going to want to see that nasty little thing’ and also to prevent leaks, then the door was opened and I staggered slowly downstairs, feeling like I had a ten gallon sack sloshing around inside me. She was reading a book, on a couch in the living room, and did not even look up as I made my way painfully over to her.

‘Please, Natalie, I’m to ask you…’ I began.

‘Miss Natalie’ she said off-handedly, not even looking up.

‘Please Miss Natalie’ I tried again, ‘could I please have your permission to go to the toilet?’

‘Number one or number two?’

‘Er… number 2, Miss. I’ve been given an enema.’

She finally looked up, took in the shambolic sight in front of her apparently without the least surprise and frowned (she was pretty even when frowning).

‘Can’t you just fill your nappy?’.

I explained about the plug and she just nodded, as if that was the most natural thing in the world. She pursed her lips, and I found myself praying desperately that this young lady who had so much power over me would exercise it mercifully.

‘Well… I don’t see why not’ she said after an agonisingly long wait. ‘But make me and Mum a cup of tea, first’ – and she indicated the kitchen I had passed when entering (when I was still an adult human being, with a modicum of self respect).

Making the teas was a torture, especially when I realised I had not yet asked how they each took it and had to stagger back to ask (both milky, sweeteners for Miss Natalie, one sugar for her Matron Mum). Once Natalie had received and doubtfully approved the tea, she asked, innocently ‘Now… what was it you wanted, again?’

Unable at this point to stop the tears, I gushingly pleased with her for permission to use the toilet and, with a dainty sigh, this request was granted. ‘But make sure you tell Mum that you didn’t call me Miss’. I staggered back upstairs and delivered this news, along with the welcome permission to defecate.

There were no more delays, thank God (or rather, thank Matron Stern). I was soon sitting on the toilet, atop a jet of liquid… I would not have been surprised if I had been propelled upwards like a rocket, so powerful was the blast. Then it was time to discover that not calling her daughter ‘Miss’ (only once!) was the worst sin I had committed so far, deserving of a caning. Thankfully, we must have been out of time, as after ten hard strokes, I was allowed to drag myself into the shower, then get dressed again and my medical examination was over.

Downstairs, Natalie was waiting with my coat and – once again – her lovely smile. She offered to call a taxi, but I simply needed to stagger out back into the real world. I don’t know whether I was still supposed to call her ‘Miss’ or not, but it seemed prudent to do so, so I was very polite.

After all, I might go back for another dose, some day.

Yours sincerely

The English Patient

I have always been vaguely intrigued by weirdos like you who will pay to be mistreated. I have occasionally considered trying it, but I suspect the reality involves pandering to male fantasy, rather than simply indulging my more vicious instincts and also being paid for it. Also, I don’t own any ridiculous rubber clothing and have no desire to promote my services on the insides of telephone boxes. Fortunately, my husband has always provided very well for me and darling Lu, financially, if in no other way at all – indeed, he would hardly dare do otherwise. It is regrettable that you retain a choice as to whether to return to the tender mercies of ‘Matron Stern’ and her daughter, but I trust that if you do so you will pay them well. L. A.

Most Superior Lady

The Lady whose house I live in, whose husband I am, has instructed me to write to You as She thought You and Your readers might find an aspect of my subjugation amusing.

She was always the dominant partner in our relationship and soon after we got married, I was put most firmly in my place. Today I am Hers to command or ignore in all respects, having long ago had any insubordination beaten out of me and self-respect removed. There are many rules that must be followed in Her household but one is very simple: everything belongs to Her and must be referred to that way.

Thus, I clean Her floors, in Her house. I take Her clothes, to Her utility room, where I put some in Her washing machine, while handwashing the delicates on my knees on Her floor. In the evenings, after I put Her dinner on Her table and draw Her curtains over Her windows, I might put Her television on, if so instructed, or perhaps play some music on Her record player.

Although I am properly to consider myself Her property, however, She does not like me to refer to parts of my body or anything I wear as being Hers. She considers that demeaning. Thus it is my penis that is firmly locked inside my chastity belt, my knees and hands that hurt as I enter the third hour removing moss from between the flagstones of her garden path and of course my bottom that is soundly thrashed with one of her many implements of punition, with my skirt raised and my panties down.

There is of course one other area where ownership is entirely my own: faults. My mistakes, my laziness, my incompetence and my stupidity. These things are all my very own, as is the pain, discomfort and pleadings that inevitably follows.

My life, as the phrase has it – and welcome to it.

Sincerely Hers

Ladysboy

Nonsense, I don’t believe a word of it. Is this the sort of rubbish you are accustomed to receiving from the nasty little perverts who buy your magazine, Lu? Dear me. Still, I suppose it helps fill up the pages and they’ll buy it anyway, if it has pictures of ladies looking stern to help them get their little peepees hard. Try to write more coherently next time, ‘Ladysboy’ and perhaps drop the ridiculous capitalisation (you will have noticed that although I allowed the capitalisation of She and Her to be printed as you had written them, on this occasion, I could not bring myself to allow ‘i’ to be published). Oh – and should your name not contain an apostrophe? Better yet: don’t write at all. L.A.

Most respected Lady

I am writing to express my humble and deep admiration for the photo-story Traditional Values. This has been by far my favourite item you have ever published, as the account of poor young Alasdair’s fate at the hands of his strict aunts was so utterly unrelieved by images of sexy young ladies to compensate for his suffering with pleasurable thoughts. Instead, Alasdair must fetch and carry, scrub and scour, wash and iron – oh, and spend hours in the schoolroom as well – all under the eyes of two such pitiless old battleaxes.

Such relentless supervision! How I felt for poor Alasdair as he staggered downstairs to the laundry room with yet another double armful of incomprehensibly complicated old ladies’ undergarments! And when his big plans for his monthly Sunday afternoon ‘off’ were scuppered with an extra detention. It was not specified what the line was that the poor lad had to write but I like to imagine it was something like “Had I behaved better over this past month, I would be enjoying an afternoon off but instead I must sit here writing this line.” Or perhaps “I am most grateful to my aunts for the opportunity to learn self-control and discipline, rather than wasting an afternoon gadding about in the sunshine.”

I have little doubt that I myself would very quickly find a life under such domestic tyranny to be unbearable, but as a fantasy it exerts a strange fascination on my soul. I very much hope we will be able to read more about Alasdair’s travails and perhaps other accounts of young men being brought to book by stern, older females.

Boy, 47

You seem thoroughly confused, ‘boy’, which is no doubt a consequence of a thorough lack of the discipline you half-heartedly crave. Your letter speaks of humility and respect for females but you obviously regard ‘images of sexy young ladies’ as an opportunity for pleasure while describing their older kin as ‘battleaxes’. Well, boy, as a ‘battleaxe’ myself I can assure you that neither sexiness nor the act of sex itself ceases at any arbitrary threshold of age. I still enjoy a very active sex life with my husband, albeit one entirely focused on my sexual needs. I take a little longer than I used to, but with him tightly restrained on his knees between my legs, there is no hurry and I make use of a whip to ensure he maintains a steady pace with his tongue for as long as is required. So much better a use for that body part than speaking, a privilege he is rarely accorded these days. As for the difference between fantasy and reality, you are probably correct that you would find such an arrangement unbearable, but I have little doubt that you could easily enough be forced to ‘bear it’ nonetheless.

Should you ever send another letter to this magazine, it must be accompanied by 300 hand-written lines reading “I apologise profusely to the Editrices and readers of Empress magazine for my first letter, which I recognise was published only to make me ashamed to see my witless drivel in print. There is little to no chance this follow-up will be published, so in writing it and these lines I am merely wasting my time and making myself ridiculous.” L.A.

Most severe and magnificent Mistress

I am humbly writing to inform you of the ritual I follow when paying due obeisance to Your divine image, each time a new edition of Empress is published. I make sure I have an evening with no distractions, prepare myself with a tub of Vaseline and then I –

Oh no, I don’t think so. That’s quite enough from you, ‘acolyte’. Some things are best kept private, don’t you think? Or abandoned altogether in favour of healthier pursuits. L. A.

Dear Madame Editrix

Maternal domination may be the softer side of female domination but for my husband it is anything but! Having inherited a comfortable fortune, my husband Geoff was something of a playboy when we married. Alas for him, I soon got wind of his ‘playing away’ and, rather than divorce him, concocted a scheme with my mother to keep him from straying or indeed bothering me at all. He lives in an attic in her secluded house, thoroughly babified and without any contact with the outside world except occasionally to receive cheques or sign authorisations relating to the finances. We put it about that he is ill, poor dear.

He has had a rather dull life. Mum thinks that young men should not be over-stimulated, so with his hands permanently fastened in soft pink mittens, his arms and legs restrained, his mouth gagged with a tube that permits feeding him liquids and mush and of course, thick nappies, he can do little more than wriggle, and look around his room, which is almost entirely pink and features images of ducklings, bunnies and the like for his sole intellectual stimulation.

He made a bit of ineffectual fuss at first, as you might imagine, but Mum is strong and very determined and she put a stop to that. He is spanked once a week and gets the cane once a month, to keep him aware of who is boss, plus of course additional punishment if he ever manages to do anything naughty, although frankly he has very little opportunity to do so.

However much Geoff may have disliked his new life, however, it recently took a turn for the much, much worse. Mum occasionally goes out and, if she is planning to be out for a whole evening, Geoff needs a babysitter. Of course, he is safe enough upstairs and is often left trussed up for days with a nice big nappy firmly sealed inside tightly stretched rubber pants, a feeding tube and absolutely nothing to do except regret his miserable existence. Nonetheless, someone really ought to be around in case something happens, so I used to pop around and sit downstairs watching TV with a glass of wine, while Mum was out enjoying herself and Geoff was upstairs being miserable.

I say ‘used to’ because Mum found another babysitter when I was recently on holiday for a few weeks (sun, sea, sand and Sangria – and no question of taking Geoff, of course!). I returned to discover that Mum had found a nineteen year-old name of Rachel and was very happy with her. Of course, I panicked and immediately started quizzing her about whether Rachel could really be trusted to keep Geoff under strict control – what is she loosened his gag and was somehow persuaded to release him? Mum just laughed and said that should be the least of our worries – and that Rachel was coming around that evening and I’d see for myself.

Rachel turned out to be a slight and rather shy little thing with a blonde bob cut. I have to say, on meeting her, I felt that my fears were justified. However, when we all went upstairs to where my dear husband was (of necessity) waiting, something happened to make me change my mind. Mum and I walked in first and as usual were greeted with the half pleading half apprehensive look from the neatly-bound package in the cot. But when Rachel walked in behind us, he began thrashing violently (if completely ineffectually) in his bonds and squealing plaintively into his gag. His eyes were wide open in what I can only describe as terror and he was sweating and shaking in fear.

You see, sweet little Rachel turned out to be something of a sadist. Now, I am perfectly happy to see my husband in pain when need be and I think Mum rather enjoys whacking him… but Rachel’s interest in pain goes well beyond that. Let loose on my husband during my holiday, she had with Mum’s blessing amused herself with Mum’s cane, she applied bulldog clips to his ears, nipples and armpits (she had apparently been reluctant to open his nappy for access to his genitals) and she rubbed chilli powder up his nose and into his eyes. I suppose Geoff had assumed that the hours of agony he had spent with her had been a one off, so his horrified reaction was understandable. Assuring her that this time all was clean and dry inside his nappy, so she could play down there as well, Mum and I went back downstairs, to the accompaniment of stifled but obviously agonised shrieks.

And so I hope Geoff has come to appreciate his treatment by Mum and me. After all, for about 28 days most months, he is not under Rachel’s tender care, which must make him very happy, because the times she is there are hell on earth for him. It is lovely to see his reaction when an evening with sweet Rachel is in store. Just this morning, I had a call from a friend suggesting a ‘girls’ night out’ next Thursday, which is Mum’s regular bridge night with her sister. I had to say I’d need to check I could get a babysitter, but alas Rachel wasn’t answering her phone so he spent the whole day not knowing whether he’ll be spending Thursday evening screaming or not. Fortunately, when I finally got through to her, she said she’d be delighted, so that’s settled. Such a relief to have a reliable babysitter!

In blissful supremacy

Irene

Dear me, it does sound as if young Rachel is going through a bit of a ‘phase’, as young ladies will. I remember being thoroughly worried when I found a cigarette lighter in my darling Lu’s room and confronted her about the evils of smoking – only to be laughingly shown the homemade branding irons she had cunningly fashioned out of paper clips stuck into corks, the clever thing. Just in case I had any lingering suspicions (which I did not, as I raised an honest girl), she showed me the little squirls she’d burnt into the flesh of whatever useless rag of a male she was seeing at the time. She was never a babysitter, though, which is just as well, as I think it wouldn’t have suited her. But in any case, she had plenty of money because she was blackmailing her head teacher. I remember this one time, she –

Thanks Mum, that was brilliant! Let’s just leave it there! G-L. L.

Oh, is that enough, dear? It felt like I’d hardly got started. I was just about to tell the readers how you used to –

No, no: quite enough, thanks Mum. The filthy little perverts who buy the magazine don’t deserve any more of our attention. Now they have to wait another month. G-L. L.

Very well dear. Thank you so much for letting me contribute, I’d often wondered what you get up to here. And to you filthy perverts: no masturbating, now! I will know. We always do. L. A.

There was a time

…when they used to say...

Yes, it’s another 1980s/90s -ish-themed post. Those heady days of big hair, big music and big phones. What’s that? yes, I’m well aware I’ve ‘done’ the big hair / big phone joke before. But this is a nostalgic post, it’s supposed to hark back. Oh, and it’s mostly very British. I hear they had the 1980s in other countries, but it doesn’t sound half as good. We had ladies with whips on The Tube and Space 1999 too…

Anyway, this is not another issue of Empress Magazine (but one is even now being lovingly pasted up using photographic paper and wax and will soon be linotyped into existence and rushed out in vans to newsagents worldwide to be handed out to furtive punters in plain paper bags). No, this is just captions relating to another time. That’s what it is. Here they are.

Probably not a good idea to lick up too much latex shiner, then act as a live ashtray, though. Foom! But quite funny for any watching dommes.

For some reason, in the UK this sort of image is known as a ‘glamour shot’.

OK, technically this one isn’t very British. This is, remarkably enough, Tina Fey in a muppet movie. More kids’ films should feature attractive ladies dressed as guards from totalitarian regimes, in my view.

It’s a good look for him. The screaming, I mean. The moustache is meh.

It was all a very coy way of talking about that ‘very special time of the month’. Or ‘special time every three months’ or year, whatever your chastity regime requires.

Yeah… we expected a future with jet-pack travel, bases on Mars and cities beneath the oceans. Instead, what did we get? A near endless supply of femdom porn, free and available to be furtively consumed in the comfort of our own homes. Thank goodness for that.

With huge apologies throughout to Cruella. Still going! Pay Andy a visit.

Forty years on

Once again, it is time for the nichest of niche postings: the third in a series I am calling ‘The 1980s called’. Regular readers (those of them who haven’t already turned away in frustration, knowing there will be no colour images of sexy young ladies captioned to say cruel things), will recall this as the series in which Servitor self-indulgently reminisces about British femdom mags that few if any of you ever read, then proceeds to try to reproduce sections of his own, made-up version of something that has been superseded first by magazines with higher production values, then by digital media and the Internet. Oddly, most people don’t seem to regret that, so just possibly, Servitor, nobody wants this crap, hmm?

But it’s no use. I’m nothing if not stubborn: just ask my SO who frequently has to go to the trouble of clicking her fingers twice, or raising an eyebrow more than a milimetre to get me to do her bidding.

So, as is now traditional in this series, let me first feature a couple more covers from the real thing, the Vixen and Mistress magazines. I’ll remind you again you can buy complete scans of these from Swish Publications and it’s an incredibly good deal: you actually pay fewer £s per mag than you would have paid in 1985. Inflation? Not in our femdom.

Those were real, from here on it isn’t.

As before, the below are entirely made-up letters to an entirely made-up magazine called Empress, together with some modern photos made to look a bit like a 1980s magazine scan. Isn’t that just about the most pointless thing ever? But I don’t care.

Empress Vol 3, Issue 6. Letters to The Editrix

Most superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

I have long admired your publication, but I felt compelled to write to you after reading Twenty rules for David in the last issue. I myself am lucky enough to live under speech rules imposed by my wise and beautiful wife, for which I give daily thanks.

Recently, my brilliantly creative wife extended these rules to include ‘codewords’ to be used when we can be overheard in public. She might, for example, say “Are you sure, darling?” which is a way of indicating that I have said something wrong and need to correct myself. If her response is “Are you quite sure, darling?”, then I have said something quite offensive and impertinent and proper correction is sure to be applied later, in private!

I wonder whether other couples have a similar system. Perhaps there are more of us than some people think! When next, at any dinner party, you hear a wife smilingly remark to her husband “We should go home soon, darling: so we can sort out those things in the attic”, just look closely to see if he goes pale! I would, as the only thing to be sorted out in the attic is my attitude. If she adds that we ought to be sorting out “Those things Aunt Susan gave us” I might even have to suppress a shudder, as ‘Aunt Susan’ is about three feet long and made of whippy rattan.

Anyway, Goddess-Lady Lucia, I must dash because it’s almost time to “do the weekly household accounts” and I fear this week those accounts might take a lot of balancing!

Respectfully

A devoted husband

Your ruler’s system sounds quite practical, devoted husband, although a little over-complicated for me. I hide nothing about my relationships and any male given the privilege of accompanying me in public can expect his status to be made perfectly clear to anyone in earshot, as the sound of a good hard slap to the face can carry a long way. I do approve of warning slaves well in advance of particularly severe punishments, however, as I enjoy watching them squirm. It would be delicious if your generous wife were to inform you early in the evening about a later encounter with Aunt Susan, to give you a few hours of dread while trying to keep up appearances in company. G-L. L.

To the exalted Editor-in-Chief

Another magnificent edition, thank you Goddess-Lady Lucia.

I particularly enjoyed the story entitled Adult Education as the ‘classroom’ scene has always fascinated me. With the greatest respect, however, I wondered whether something had gone wrong in the editing process, as on the second page of the story our protagonist receives the cane for mistakes in his algebra test – a test he only takes on the third page! Was this intentional; implying that Headmistress Burroughs could simply anticipate his hopeless performance and apply correction ‘in advance’ so to speak?

Yours in confusion

Jenkins minor, Guildford.

Your first suggestion was the correct one, Jenkins minuscule. Something did indeed go wrong – or rather someone did – and the columns of that particular story were ‘pasted up’ in the wrong order. Believe me, ‘the mistake is regretted’ as they say – regretted profoundly. ‘Pasting up’ involves taking columns of text printed on photographic paper by a Linotype machine and applying warm wax to them so they can be placed, along with photographs, on the page ready for printing. The wax is applied warm, not hot, so it sticks the items in place while allowing small adjustments to their positions. However, wax can be made hotter. Much, much hotter. And then it can be applied to other places, such as the more sensitive parts of some incompetent sub-editor (emphasis on the ‘sub’) who messed up the order of that story. I do like to make the punishment fit the crime. Equally, though, if a fitting punishment is not enough, I like to add more, so after the hot wax treatment I thrashed him with a riding crop. Then I fired him – banished from my divine presence forever. He will not make that mistake again… nor walk, for a few days I imagine. G-L. L.

To my esteemed sister in dominance

I am greatly enjoying the series Maid to Command as I have always taken particular pleasure in imposing the arduous lifestyle of a Victorian housemaid upon arrogant males. My husband inadvertently – and I suspect to his regret – introduced me to this hobby, through his sexual interest in frilly, lacey and submissive feminine dress. Such foolishness can and should be exploited and after a brief period of indulging his desires, I briskly moved things on. Today he wears a simple and practical uniform, as do two younger males whom I have also taken into service. Quite a few males have an interest in occasionally flouncing around in a frilly or rubber simulacrum of a French maid outfit but I find few who are prepared to suffer the real thing – or rather, enough of the real thing for them to be beyond the point of turning back. For that to happen, I find they need to be subjected to three important disciplines: if I can impose those, complete control is assured.

The first is submission to proper, painful chastisement. When assessing a potential recruit, I sooner or later put him across my lap for a firm hand-spanking. No implement is required: I am a large and powerful lady, with hard hands, and by God I can spank any man to tears. Held firmly in place with one hand in the small of his back, a male over my lap expecting a sexy foreplay spanking will be sorely – very sorely – disappointed. I do use other implements, but I pride myself on being able to inflict intolerable pain with my hands alone. Any male who submits to that twice, knowing what he is in for, is surely mine to do with as I please.

So the second discipline is rapidly imposed after the first proper spanking: chastity, of course. I control the pain, I control the pleasure. After perhaps an initial period to accustom the maid to the device, I quickly tighten up, limiting orgasms to a thoroughly impersonal three-monthly release, all the maids together to add to the humiliation. I never ‘reward’ with release. My husband will be 60 in two years’ time, at which point – I have informed him – that will be that as far as this particular aspect of his life is concerned.

Finally the third discipline, which I regret has not thus far appeared in Maid to Command, Madame Editrix: tight corseting. If there is one enduring symbol of the centuries of male domination over women it is the way our bodies were forced uncomfortably to conform to an ‘idealised’ female shape. Well, no more. I am a large lady, as I said, and I see no reason to constrain my natural girth. For my maids, however, it is different: their lives are shaped by my wishes and, thus, so will be their bodies. If in history females were corseted primarily for looks, with the discomfort as a side-effect, for my subjugated males it is the opposite: discomfort is the objective.

I particularly look forward to a new maid’s first corseting. The garment I use looks reasonably feminine, in white with black laces and even some floral decoration. But it conceals ribs of steel, those white laces when pulled can, through their actions across multiple eye-holes, exert a tremendous constraining pressure and the ensemble is topped off with a buckle, fastened with a small padlock ensures no loosening. This latter is probably superfluous – the corseted maid cannot really reach behind to loosen the firmly-tied bow and his fellow maids would never dare to help him do so! But the ‘click’ of the lock removes any lingering hope of relief from the pressure and is thus effective in bringing home the difficulty of the situation.

Difficult it is. I pull the laces with all of my strength, working them over several times to create the maximum pressure. This finishes with my foot or knee in the small of the panicking maid’s back, extracting the last tenth of an inch of tightness. And by God it is tight. “Mistress, I can’t breathe!” they will squeak in panic. And they’re right: they can’t. Not until they learn the technique: shallow, frequent breaths from the chest, no expansion at all at the waist. But fast shallow breathing merely adds to the sense of panic – and panic they do. Most will pass out, some several times. It does them no harm. When unconscious, their panic will cease and they will take in enough oxygen to recover. When fully tightened they will be perpetually short of breath, which is an important element of the corseting. The maids’ stays are loosened just a little at night, then each day they initially have a few hours of merely uncomfortably tight rather than painfully tight corseting, before once again my strong arm and my boot in the small of their backs restores them to doll-like weakness. It involves considerable effort on my part, of course, but I love it.

So constrained, my maids cannot undertake any activity involving great exertion. They can still serve and undertake certain household tasks but anything involving heavy lifting must take place in the hours between to start of their day at 5.30 and my rising, typically around 10. After that, work is slow. Even before their corsets are tightened, short lengths of chain between their ankles and between their wrists create some inefficiency. You might wonder how the housework ever gets done? The answer is simple: each housemaid works a fourteen-hour shift and I have three of them. Even in the absence of any labour-saving devices (I haven’t the slightest interest in saving labour: the more of it there is for me to enjoy, the better), there is plenty of time for everything to be done in the most, repetitive tedious manner possible. So what if it takes a maid half an hour to iron one of my blouses and carry it carefully up to my wardrobe on the third floor, stopping every few steps carefully to recover her breath? To do six such blouses takes only three hours, leaving eleven hours left in the working day. I read somewhere that the unions in France are striking for a forty-hour week. My maids each work a ninety-eight hour week and they don’t get paid for it, the incentive being provided by my hand rather than my purse.

In conclusion, my dear, I encourage the author of Maid to Command to embrace corseting. A male placed in rigid physical control appreciates all the more the inflexible moral regime under which he serves. Generations of women forced into these appalling devices will applaud – and laugh, as you will laugh, at the sight of the corseted male in his perpetual discomfort.

Yours in sisterhood

Lady Maud

I suppose as Editrix I should add a note of caution at this point, for readers tempted to try corseting a male so tightly as to restrict his breathing. However, Lady Maud’s description of the suffering this causes is so appealing that I cannot bring myself to do so. Have at it, ladies: tug away. G-L. L.

Exalted Goddess-Lady Lucia

I just had to write to express my appreciation for the Birchwood Detention Centre series. Too often, the personalities and backgrounds of the ladies in disciplinary literature are barely sketched, if mentioned at all. Here, we appreciate the three young heroines as fully rounded characters from the very opening of the first instalment, with them as raw young cadets on the train to their assignment at Birchwood. As I child I read and loved the ‘jolly hockey sticks’ style of girls’ school story – how lovely to see it transposed into such a setting… ‘jolly rattan cane’ perhaps? But not so jolly for the male inmates!

How I felt Angela’s embarrassment at being greeted in such an over-familiar fashion by an inmate who had briefly been her boyfriend, and how we all cheered when she was given an opportunity alone with him in the punishment room to teach him about their new ‘relationship’ at the Centre! How very wise of Senior Section Officer Wallace to give her that opportunity even if a Trainee Junior Disciplinary Officer is not really supposed to be left alone with an inmate – a true leader knows when to bend the rules and when to enforce them rigidly. Oh – and poor Rosie, accidentally setting off the shock collars of every inmate on the block when she was learning how to use her remote punishment device! No real harm done, of course, but how we felt for her when she realised her mistake, face burning with embarrassment, after SDO Morris stormed in to find out why her work detail were all writhing on the floor in agony instead of carrying their loads of bricks! It was a sweet and tender scene when Julie comforted her afterwards in her quarters… I wondered whether perhaps it became later even more sweet and tender? There seems to be to be a strong undercurrent of lesbianism in several of the girls’ relationships but only hinted at, at least in the first two instalments. Will romances perhaps blossom?

Finally, I am sure all your readers are enthralled by little Clara’s storyline. At present, I have to say she seems rather a fish out of water, being so easily upset at the sight and sound of boys in pain. Will she be able to overcome her squeamishness, or might we say goodbye to her, perhaps last seeing her sitting sadly alone on the train, contemplating an uncertain future? I do so hope not, as she is such a determined little thing, even if she lacks innate brutality. Disappointed too, I imagine, would be SSO Ryder, whose interest in her seems rather ‘closer’ shall we say, than is strictly required for her training role. Again, without necessarily wishing to see an explicitly lesbian sex scene as such, it would be lovely if these ambiguities could be resolved with a loving embrace or even a full kiss…?

Yours agog

Slave to schoolgirls

I am pleased to receive such appreciation of the narrative elements of these stories; so many male readers’ missives essentially saying little other than ‘Whoa, nice tits!’. Indeed, character development is central to the Birchwood series and the author assures me that new characters will be introduced over time, along with new dilemmas bringing triumphs and disappointments for our three heroines, in true ‘school story’ style. I believe that in so implying Clara’s continued presence, I am not giving away too much, since, as you will read in this issue, an encounter with a rather unpleasant trio of lads when on an out-of-uniform visit to the nearby town awakens something inside her and she – well, I’ll write no more here, in case any readers have turned to this letters page before reading the latest instalment. Let’s just say that it was a life-changing experience both for her and – once the process of the law had worked its course – the three boys, who are likely to have the dubious pleasure of meeting her again, in a subsequent instalment.

I recognise in Clara a lot of women I have known, who came late to the realisation of how much they truly enjoy hurting males. I believe that at least half of all females have that potential inside them, whether the pleasure they will find is sexual or has a different aspect. But in our woefully male-led society, few develop it. I myself have been an enthusiastic persecutor of the male sex since childhood bullying days, but in so many others it is latent. I have a friend who horrified me by her lovey-dovey, indulgent attitude to the young man she eventually married, but I am so glad I did not cut all ties because one day something simply snapped and ‘hubby’ painfully learnt the consequences of presuming on a lady’s good nature. I visited them recently and observed with approval his nervous attention to her every casual word, the cane hanging so brazenly on a hook in the hallway leaving very little doubt as to what he feared!

As for the lesbianism, StS, it’s really none of your business. I know men fantasise about this, but the reality of female-only romances is far too complex for the brute emotions of males to comprehend, so any description of such a relationship in a magazine that out of commercial necessity is aimed mainly at a male readership, could only ever present the surface, obvious elements of a lesbian tryst. Lesbianism is not for provoking sexual arousal in males, only sexual frustration at the realisation that we can do quite nicely without male sexual activity (of which none is therefore required nor permitted).

Hmm. I have bestowed on you rather a longer reply than you deserve, StS. I order you to write another letter about Birchwood. This time, provide a long paragraph on each of the principal characters, avoid speculating about lesbian affairs that are not explicitly present (you may, therefore, refer to Rosie’s visit to SSO Ryder’s quarters, from the instalment in this issue of the magazine) and try to use proper punctuation. I had to edit the letter above, to make it readable and my time is incomparably more valuable than yours. G-L. L.

In the light of your insistence on males in your presence being naked, Goddess-Lady Lucia, I wonder if you have a view on the ideal length of the male penis? I have heard that some ladies do not like them too large?

Too much effort to add a line of respectful greeting or sign off your ‘letter’, boy? You don’t really deserve a reply, but I will just note that opinion is divided on the topic. Many ladies of my acquaintance – especially those of a lesbian persuasion – believe that the ideal size is ‘zero’ and some have devoted themselves to reducing the average towards that. Me, I like a man to have plenty of flesh there, as larger penises have more pain receptors in proportion. But if I decide a man would serve me better with less down there, I am quite prepared to follow the example of my sapphic sisters! G-L. L.

To the supreme Goddess-Lady Lucia

I am a submissive male who has the privilege occasionally of serving a superior lady in person. However, I cannot visit her as often as I would like, so she has taken to setting me time-consuming menial tasks, so I will think of her in the long gaps between visits.

I write lines, of course, hunched over my desk at home like a schoolboy, copying out endlessly some uplifting moral message, such as “My heart and soul belong to Mistress [X], at whose whim I am writing out this line five hundred times and who delights in setting a long sentence for this tedious task, regardless of whether the resulting absurd pile of words makes sense, the point merely being to ensure I spend my time in this repetitive task so befitting of my status.”

However, she has lately hit upon what she calls the ‘lottery game’. This was inspired by a game she invented for playing during our sessions, when she would scatter a pack of cards around a room and I would crawl around picking them up (sometimes with hands restrained). On one occasion, she told me that one card had been removed and that it was my task to identify it. Of course, a missing card cannot be identified until all the cards have been gathered, so I had to carefully sort them in to order once all had been gathered up.

When I was leaving her house after a later session, she handed me a plastic shopping bag. Inside was a mass of lottery tickets, of the sort sold in tear-off books for use at summer fete raffles and the like. They had indeed been torn off and simply filled the bag higgledy-piggledy, like waist paper. She informed me that they were from a book of 500 tickets and that at my next session I should report the number of the one she had removed.

Perhaps your readers can imagine what a tedious task this turned out to be. The 500 (or rather, 499) tickets had to be sorted into order, which took me several hours. The beauty of the system, of course, is that the dominant can perfectly accurately verify the amount of work her submissive put in with almost no effort – she simply had to take a ticket at random and note the number.

Since then she has varied the task occasionally. She almost always uses books of 1000 tickets, after I made the mistake of truthfully reporting how long it had taken me (she looked disappointed). She no longer tells me how many tickets she has taken – it could be two, three or four, or – and this caused me the most immense anxiety – none. Sometimes I am at ‘liberty’ to carry out my tedious task at any time in the interval between my visits to her (I usually try to deal with it fairly early, as it is horrible having the task hanging over me), on other occasions she might require an answer by telephone within 24 hours. On one occasion when I had done that, I was surprised and delighted to receive a package in the post a couple of days later – out of which fell, of course, another batch of lottery tickets.

All of this, of course, merely serves to remind me that my time is hers to command, and so I will take this opportunity to record my gratitude to my creative and thoughtful Mistress, for giving me so many hours of opportunity to spend my time in her service.

Her obedient servant

Timewaster

P.S.: My Mistress has just ordered me to copy out this letter several times. She has not yet informed me how many copies I will write, but I am to begin now and she will tell me when I have reached – or exceeded – the target she has decided upon. How silly of me to have written so much but that is my own fault for being such a tedious little man. This postscript was written under dictation.

I did indeed receive 30 copies of the letter above.

If Timewaster’s Mistress is reading this, she might care to note that there was a spelling mistake – regrettably repeated in each copy – that I have reproduced in the printed version above. Once he has found it for you, you might decide it is appropriate for him to write out a corrected version, or several. For my part, if I receive a written punishment that contains an error, I usually quadruple the required length or number of copies, but of course that is up to you, my dear. You might also have spotted that he describes telling you the truth as a ‘mistake’, which I found infuriating and I do not even know the wretched little man!

Nonetheless, the contemptible Timewaster’s letter has inspired my generous nature to provide a task to the absurd male creatures who make up the mindless majority of this magazine’s readership. How many times does the word ‘cane’ appear in this edition? Include all instances, whether in the main text, letters or advertisements but do not count any variants such as ‘canes’ or ‘caned’. The sub-editors have counted very carefully (they came to different totals the first time, so they did it again). Once you have counted, send your answer on a postcard clearly marked ‘I wasted my time at Goddess-Lady Lucia’s direction’ to the usual address. There are no prizes, of course, the opportunity to engage in a completely pointless task I commanded from you should be reward enough, along with the thrill you will get thinking of the contempt for you I will feel in the unlikely event that I bother to look at any of the postcards. Get on with it, scum. G-L. L.

The 1980s called back

Cast your minds back, British readers over a certain age, to a time when dominatrices advertised on little cards in phone boxes rather than OnlyFans, when femdom images were to be found only on furtive trips to specialised shops in Soho and when those same images came wrapped not in endless entreaties to subscribe to one or other specialised service but in plain paper bags, usually a pastel shade rather than brown, for some reason.

Yes, I am talking about last July, 2023, when this blog featured a post called ‘The 1980s called‘, devoted in part to rhapsodising about the magazines of Servitor’s mis-spent youth and in part to a ~~rip-off of~~ homage to those magazines, in the form of a ‘letters’ section written in his mis-spent late adulthood.

I warned you then this might become a series and so it has. OK, I recognise that the number of this blog’s readers who ever came across such magazines can probably be counted on the fingers of the one hand that is not presently in your trousers. But I don’t care: this blog has never sought the easy route of popularity, and it has been consistently successful in avoiding it.

So, let me first feature a couple more covers from the real thing, the Vixen and Mistress magazines.

So, so lovely…

These are from the web page of the helpful guy at Swish Publications. He’s scanned them all and is happy to sell them to you for a remarkably modest price (fewer £s than the originals cost way back then) so why you are still here reading my shabby imitation I have no idea. And I must also mention in a kind of Wayne’s World ‘we’re not worthy’ manner that the creator of the slightly later generation of femdom mag that was Cruella and Goddess is still going strong too, at https://cruella.com. Go on, Andy, Mr Rogue-Hagen, scan the old stuff and sell them as pdf mags… you won’t regret it. And we’d love to see ‘Victoria’ and co again.

Right…

As before, the below are entirely made-up letters to an entirely made-up magazine called Empress, together with some modern photos made to look a bit like a 1980s magazine scan. Why? Oh, who knows. But with the world in such a terrible state, I guess we all just have to do what we can.

Empress Vol 3, Issue 2. Letters to The Editrix

Most sublime Goddess-Lady Lucia

The article entitled A dog’s life for Steven in the June 1986 edition of your wonderful magazine reminded me of something your readers might enjoy hearing about. My wife is firmly in charge in our marriage: in all important respects I am no more than her slave. I long since learnt that any failures on my part – let alone attempts at asserting my independence – will be met with swift and painful corrective measures.

Just over a year ago, my wife came back from the shops with a small package. It turned out she had been to the pet shop and bought what I understand is called a ‘shock collar’ for dogs. It looked like a regular thin leather dog collar, with a kind of plastic box attached to it, from the inside edge of which protruded two rounded metal studs. It came without batteries (why don’t manufacturers simply include them?), so I was sent out to the newsagent – it took one of those little 9 volt rectangular ones, and I bought one and a spare.

With battery installed, it was fastened around my neck and my wife fiddled a bit with the remote control that came with it and suddenly I had a horrible feeling that made me gasp. It’s hard to describe, Goddess-Lady Lucia, even though I have since experienced it hundreds of times. It is not a hot, searing kind of pain on the skin of the neck… in an odd way it’s not really pain at all, it’s a kind of wrench right inside one’s body. As I said, it’s not exactly pain but the sense that someone has reached inside your chest and tugged at everything inside there at the same time is deeply unpleasant. Of course, I begged and whined to be released – and she did take it off, but this turned out just to be to drill an extra hole through the leather collar, to fit a small padlock. And on it went again.

I now wear it whenever I am in the house, and quite often outside. I have never particularly liked roll-neck pullovers but now I have several of them because they are just what is needed to cover it up. We don’t play at my being her dog, you understand – it is just another way or punishing me for my faults and reminding me of my place whenever she deems that necessary. I am responsible for ensuring that it always has a working battery and that there is always a spare battery in the house.

As I am not a dog, of course, I can touch it with my fingers. So I soon realised that a small piece of paper, slid carefully down between my neck and the prongs, could insulate me from any shocks. I tried that once – just once. I jumped and squawked, whenever I saw her pressing the button, but of course sooner or later she gave it a press when I was not looking. The paper was found, the husband was caned mercilessly, every one of the shocks I had so deceitfully avoided (or her estimation of that total) were applied in triplicate and believe me I have never dared repeat the attempt.

I now give generously whenever I pass one of those collection boxes for the RSPCA. I have never been much of a dog lover, but I can definitely say they have my full sympathy!

In collared submission

Mrs Henshaw’s husband.

Well, Mrs Henshaw sounds like a lady after my own heart! I strongly disapprove of these devices being used to hurt our four-legged friends, so I hope that every one of the vile devices is bought up by wives to put to the excellent use you describe. There is, after all, no Society (Royal or other) for the prevention of cruelty to husbands and nor should there be! G-L L.

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

Your publication is simply wonderful, easily the best of its kind on the market. I particularly like the school-themed stories, as my own fantasies typically involve my sitting with head bowed at a plain wooden school desk, often frantically scribbling punishment lines, while a stern lady teacher taps her cane thoughtfully against her palm, planning the next phase of my detention.

Goddess-Lady Lucia, you are so beautiful and commanding and wise. I would love to spend my evenings in pointless drudgery, writing punishment lines at your command. If I could write lines in your honour, Goddess-Lady Lucia, what should I write and how many would you require me to do?

Yours in scholastic supplication

Dayboy

How ridiculous you men all are! Fine – why not? Take an edition of Empress, roll two dice to pick a page, then close your eyes and point at a sentence. If it’s less than fifteen words, close your eyes and point again until you find one. Then write it out for me, oh… shall we say a million times? Don’t write again until that’s done. If you manage to finish before you die, you can send the completed library-full to the address for letters – or better yet, don’t. If you die first, just make sure your will makes clear I do NOT want to see the stupid things. G-L L.

Most Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

I have been an avid reader of your wonderful magazine since the first issue, having always fantasised about being under the command of a beatiful young lady like yourself. Recently, I got married to a sweet but very inexperienced girl and after a few weeks I plucked up the courage to ask her for a spanking. She looked shocked and confused and said she wanted to talk to her Mum about it.

Although embarassed she’d be talking to her Mum (a lady I’d always suspected did not approve of me – any more than I did of her), it was perhaps not that unreasonable, as she was so inexperienced in matters sexual. I was just relieved she hadn’t immediately said no, or laughed or something like that. But a few days later, I came home and she announced she was ready to give it a go. Delighted, I took off my trousers but then to my horror she shouted ‘Mum!’ and my mother-in-law came into the room, put me firmly across her ample lap and whalloped the bejasus out of me! My God, she had a firm hand – and a bloody strong right arm, too. When she finally let me up, my face was red and wet with tears and my buttocks were black and blue – I could hardly walk! Needless to say, my cock had shrivelled to almost nothing, it was the most unsexy experience of my life.

I thought maybe that would be that, she’d leave and I could talk to my lovely young wife and explain that this was not what I had in mind. But the old harridan had come to stay with us! The next day, after a night on the couch, I found myself alone with my wife and tried to speak about it but… ‘Mum!’. And you can guess what happened then.

Since then, they have found my stash of Empress magazines and I fear that has given them ideas. I do the housework in a little apron, I clean shoes with my tongue and handwash underwear – some very large and horribly stained underwear too – and they have bought a cane. All of my fantasies have come true – and I hate every moment. But the worst horror was to be threatened with ‘facesitting’ after my ‘Mother Superior’ read the story titled Lydia’s living cushion in one of the recent issues. I don’t think I’d survive – she must weigh 200 lbs at least!

Please, please Goddess-Lady Lucia, help me. You understand this is a sex fetish. Can you help me explain to my lovely young wife and her evil old cow of a mother that I just want an occasional sexy spanking, not to be the slave of some brutal old tyrant? I was thinking maybe an article about how to balance sex fantasies with reality? Obviously, please don’t print this letter.

Yours in supplication

Desperate Dan

Ha ha ha! My favourite letter of the month… oh I hope it is true. And if the lady you describe as an ‘evil old cow’ is reading this then I hope she both takes note of how you described her and also reads carefully through the story titled ‘The queue for the Ladies”, because I think the scenario described there is another that you would probably enjoy less in reality than in fantasy. But I’ve tried it and it’s perfectly practical: all she’ll need is a plastic funnel and a suitably contemptuous attitude. Ladies of a certain age often need to pee quite frequently, so having someone ready (if not truly willing) wherever she is, at a moment’s notice, would be a great comfort. Try eating asparagus first too, my dear, to give him an even more revolting time! G-L. L.

Dear Goddess-Lady Lucia

I have noticed that many of the stories in your magazine feature lesbians. The beautiful girls who seem to indulge in this practice are often accompanied by pasty-fleshed, unattractive middle-aged males. Do you think perhaps they might take more of an interest in men if they had more impressive specimens to play with? I myself am fit, young and particularly well-endowed and I would be happy to teach any of these girls about the joys of being on the business end of a real man’s tool.

Rifleman James

I assume this is a joke. You certainly are, small-bore Jimmy. I myself am bisexual as although I prefer to date women (the conversation, sex, hygiene and manners are all infinitely better), I do love the male penis. I have a special box full of small braided whips, clamps, spiked wheels and rough sandpaper and will happily spend an hour or two playing with a firmly secured fine male appendage, to get into the mood before sinking into the arms of my blonde beloved later. Your own penis sounds so lovely, I think I would probably want to keep it. In a box by the bed. Now go and wank off to a different magazine, as this one is obviously too difficult for you to understand. G-L L.

Esteemed Lady Lucia

I so admire the ladies in the stories in this magazine. I myself was ‘introduced’ to female domination as fantasy play by the man who become my husband and then, soon after our wedding, it was my turn to introduce him to what a real disciplinary relationship can be like. This came as quite a shock for him… I think he had expected me to prance around in leather and occasionally gently tap his bottom with the end of a riding whip, the silly thing. Needless to say, as soon as I had grasped the basic concept and with the help of lesser magazines than yours, I decided that a cane was my preferred instrument. Although ‘bondage’ hadn’t featured in his fantasies, I also soon discovered that a good caning could only be administered if his wrists and ankles were secured. And the combination of a firmly secured man and a cane wielded with determination and entirely without mercy has provided me with a thoroughly satisfactory domestic arrangement ever since.

He said the funniest thing the other day, while strapped down over an armchair in our sitting room, awaiting the second dozen of a twenty-four stroke caning. Amidst all the tears and pleading, he blurted out “You don’t know how much it hurts!”. And of course, he’s entirely right. I have never allowed anyone to hit me with a vicious implement like that and I never will. Why on earth would I? In this world, there are those who cane and there are those who are caned – and I have no doubt which side of that divide I prefer to be on! It is truly better to give than receive, as my dear mother used to say. Don’t you agree, Lady Lucia?

A generous wife

No doubt you make sure that your husband appreciates the gifts you so generously bestow on him. As for the great divide, I quite agree about which side it is best to be on. I know there are some females who prefer the submissive role, but I have never felt the slightest desire to experiment with that! Unlike you, though, I have tried out the cane – I once asked a dear lady friend to give me just one stroke on the thigh, just to see what it was like. Bloody murder it was – and I am sure she did not lay it on hard. It almost made me sympathise the next time I had to dish out a proper caning to one of my slaves. Almost, but not quite. My own mother used to say ‘Life’s not fair’ and it has been a delight for me, discovering just how unfair it can be made to be. G-L. L.

To Our Lady Lucia of the Boots

Oh, Mistress Lucia, what a delight to see so many pictures of you in lace-up boots in the March edition of your perfect magazine. I found myself consumed with jealousy at the sight of your two office slaves, permitted to lick the divine leather after their well-deserved thrashings.

My fantasy is to be nothing but a boot cleaner. Chained in a steel compartment, I wait for a passing lady to deposit a pair in the chute leading down to my box. I get to work, first carefully unlacing them, then licking all the mud off, before commencing the brushing and polishing and relacing the boots. A suitably dirty pair will take anything up to 12 hours. I place the cleaned boots on my back and lean forward into a floor-level pillory that automatically snaps into place. This displays a sign outside my box that the boots are ready and some time later that day or the day after, the front of the box will be lifted up, the lady customer will pick up and inspect her boots, award me a rating out of ten and administer any additional strokes of the handy crop she deems appropriate. Every few days the overseers come around and thrash us, at a rate of ten strokes for each rating short of a perfect ten we have received for each pair of boots serviced.

Goddess-Lady Lucia I know of course that my fantasy is unrealisable but while there are booted and demanding Ladies like yourself out there, the dream remains alive.

Bootcleaner #23

Well, #23, your fantasy, while ridiculous, is amusing enough and shows a proper appreciation of your place in this world. Licking boots, however, is a privilege not a valuable service: the tongue applied to a truly muddy boot will merely smear the mess around and excessive saliva does the leather no good. I insist instead on vigorous brushwork – but I do make the slave eat up the pile of dirt left on the newspaper when it is done. The boots you saw being licked are a special pair I wear when a slave deserves the reward of using his tongue – and I make sure he knows full well that the leather is impregnated with the saliva of many males before him. Yet still they beg for the privilege – what absurd and easily-enslaved creatures you all are! G-L. L.

Goddess-Lady Lucia is presently overseeing the production of the next issue of Empress, which will feature:

The continuing Trials of Steven: released from the Training Centre back into Ms Judy’s care, Steven learns that he is now just one of a stable of slaves who must compete for her favour!
Re-educating the chauvinist. Malcolm mocks a women’s lib demonstration and is taught the error of his ways.
Office Politics Part 2: the typists’ revolt continues.
Return of the Gymslip Gumshoes. Our schoolgirl detectives are back, this time investigating a series of underwear thefts.
Nursing a Grudge: with his legs and arms in plaster, Ian can do nothing when the ward nurses decide to give him a series of enemas.
.And of course Empress Editorial, Readers’ Letters and the ‘winners’ of Goddess-Lady Lucia’s Stupidest Slave Haircut competition.

Male creatures are instructed to ensure they have sufficient funds to buy it, then give the rest of their money anonymously to a woman.

The 1980s called

and they want their femdom… no that doesn’t work.

OK, look, I’ve put up some posts before that I know are likely only to appeal to a small group of people, but this one really takes the dog biscuit, if you know what I mean. So please don’t go commenting that you don’t get it: unless you were born in the UK in the 1960s or before, you almost certainly won’t.

It’s about the British magazines of the late 80s and early 90s. Pre-Internet, in effect, even if some geeks were already hunched over thick glass cathode ray tube screens, downloading ‘threads’ from ‘messageboards’ to the sound of an irritating whine from the modem (and occasional whines too from other household members about hogging the phone line). Yes, that long ago. No, I’m not even talking about Cruella and Goddess: before them, there were Vixen and Mistress. This is British femdom pre-history.

Vixen and Mistress featured femdom stories with some fairly high production value photos, at least in the earlier editions, and a reasonable attempt to use those photos to illustrate the stories. Otherwise, femdom magazines available mostly consisted of American stuff with not much story but lots of garish pictures of women dressed in very fetishy clothing brandishing whips – I’m not saying I objected to that, but it never quite did it for me in the same way. In Britain, there was also Madame in a World of Fantasy, with much lower production values and an obsession with the more, shall we say, maternal and matronly end of femdom (Mistress Scarlet’s site and her publications today have a similar vibe and often refer to Madame). And cross-dressing. Nothing wrong with any of that either, but it was Vixen and Mistress which exploded into my just-old-enough-to-buy-them young psyche.

Then, a couple of years later, came Cruella and Goddess, with better quality pictures and excitingly violent stories, then OWK produced a few magazines with simply astonishing photos and articles and then… well, then there was the Internet, wasn’t there, and that was that. Nothing wrong with that either. At least I no longer had to drop into several pubs around Tottenham Court Road, to get my nerve up to walk into Lovejoys or Janus, to hand over cash for magazines that were carefully placed into a plain paper wrapper for me to place inside my bag with trembling hands and somehow resist looking at on the train ride home. We have it easy today. But something was lost, too.

(Sardax has written – and obviously drawn beautifully – about this too).

Maybe that’s just nostalgia on my part. Our earliest porn is always the most exciting, right? Found femdom in the Two Ronnies, the Pink Panther or Space 1999 – I could hardly breathe for excitement when watching those scenes, while today (old, jaded and less potent as I am) I might skip impatiently through some Internet video showing much more. Nonetheless, having thrown out (and destroyed) all of my physical porn collection decades ago, I have long searched for scans of these wonderful old mags online.

And then I found them. Here: https://swishpublications.wixsite.com/swish/magazine-scans. I contacted the guy who runs the site, and received PDF scans of all of the Vixens and Mistresses he has, which is most of them, for a very reasonable price. Extraordinarily reasonable, given how much I had longed for them over the years… I would genuinely have paid ten times what he asked (but I didn’t: sorry!). Before you ask I am NOT going to post the PDFs here. You can buy them for yourself by emailing swish.publications@gmail.com: he is very nice and helpful, they’re cheap, they arrive quickly and the scans are excellent quality. Go for it. And he has lots of other stuff too. Not Cruella, alas, presumably because Andy Rogue-Hagen is still going (but hasn’t posted anything lately) and is protecting copyright and quite right too. But, Andy, there’s no point in hoarding copyright without monetising it… I’d pay very good money for scans of Cruella, Goddess and even Victoria, especially the early ones. Come on, mate.

Back to Vixen and Mistress. I won’t copy here any of the content, but I will republish here some of the cover pages, as the seller has made those available and I hope some of you will follow through and buy stuff from him. Again: don’t ask me for the PDFs; you’ll have to buy them from Swish Publications.

So here are the Vixen cover pages: https://swishpublications.wixsite.com/swish/vixen

And Mistress: https://swishpublications.wixsite.com/swish/mistress

So… did the mags live up to my memories? Well, yes and no. ‘No’ because maybe that was an impossibly high bar to meet. We never get to recapture fully that first excitement. But they were still very good – at least the earlier ones. You can just about tell from looking at the cover pages in the two links above: the earlier ones are much classier than the later materials. The same was true of the content: the articles were much the same, but in the later issues there was no real attempt to match the pictures in any way to the words, it all had a sense of being more thrown together. Oh, and I had never noticed as a young lad buying them one at a time how similar many of the stories were: whoever wrote it was obsessed with males committing crimes, then being blackmailed into non-consensual service to a woman, usually in some remote country cottage. Which is indeed a lovely femdom fantasy, but should be one among many rather than (I’d say) about 70% of all the stories. But up to – say – issue 15-20 of each… pure femdom gold, at least for us chaps of a certain age.

The two issues below, for example, and the two ladies featured on the cover of each… I’d remembered them from 30 years before and they are still wonderful.

And they had letters pages. I suspect most of the letters were genuinely sent, even if what they described was obviously almost entirely made up. The letters were addressed to equally fictitious editors, who were supposed to be dominant ladies, whose brief and haughty responses to the letters were in character with their supposed personas. (Cruella did the same thing when it started, by the way, its editor notionally being Victoria – a strikingly dominant-looking lady as seen here – whom Cruella‘s creator has cheerfully admitted was a barmaid in whom he saw femdom potential. And Madame too, some of the letters from which are available on Mistress Scarlet’s site.)

I don’t imagine anyone truly believed in the contents of the letters or in the editors. But it was all part of the fun.

So much part of the fun, in fact, that after reading all of the letters to the editor in the scans that I bought, I found myself hankering for more. So I wrote some. Mine are to the editor of a magazine that I will call Empress, which never existed but if it had would have published from some P. O. Box between the years 1985 and 1992 or so. Its editor (although she prefers ‘editrix’) is Goddess-Lady Lucia, and heaven help any male creatures daring to write in to her august journal who fail to show her the respect due by using her proper title.

So here we go: a selection of letters to Empress magazine, from an alternative universe about thirty-five years ago. Illustrated with artificially aged pictures from various places (some from the defunct Young Goddess site) that seem roughly in keeping with the style.

Empress Vol 2, Issue 3. Letters to The Editrix

Most revered Goddess-Lady Lucia

Please excuse my impertinence in writing to your esteemed publication, but I felt I had to tell you of my awe and express my thanks for deigning to publish such a wonderful magazine. When I see a new edition in the newsagent, my heart always leaps into my mouth. The embarrassment of taking it to the counter is excruciating, but I know that the reward will be worth it, when I get home and take it out of the plain paper bag.

I have a routine, Goddess-Lady Lucia. The first night I have a new edition of your wonderful magazine at home, I am not permitted to do more than kneel in front of it and kiss the cover. Kissing the cover of the March 1985 edition, with the gorgeous blonde lady glancing down backward over her shoulder, was a particular thrill, as the respectful kiss I was able to bestow was placed humbly on her magnificent leather-clad rear end. But whatever the subject matter on the cover, I kiss it in homage and do no more that first night.

Then, the second night – what a thrill! – I turn the cover to see the contents page. So much excitement promised! I kiss each story title in turn, my head spinning with the thought of what lies in store for me. Occasionally, there is a picture of your stunning self, Goddess-Lady Lucia, and then I must take an extra day to kiss that reverentially before proceeding further.

From then, Goddess-Lady Lucia, the divine goddess Lady Luck takes command. Each time I need to advance a page, I roll a die and if it comes up three or less, I am denied and must wait. If it turns out that the next page is the start of a new story, I must roll a six to continue. Sometimes I go almost mad with frustration – stuck on the same page for a week or more. But I am as strict with myself as no doubt you would be were you towering over my trembling, naked form, and I never break my rule.

Finally, Goddess-Lady Lucia, I reach the letters pages and each time, I am desperate to write you a missive expressing my deepest admiration and gratitude. I have never dared before, but now finally I have done so and I will burn with anticipation while working through the next issue – or the one after or the one after that – to see if my words have been considered adequate to publish and perhaps even (sacrilegious thought!) deemed worthy of a reply from your own fair hand.

Acolyte

Well, you sound like a very tedious little man, ‘acolyte’. I deliberately held back from publishing this or replying for several months and I hope you found the wait thoroughly unpleasant. You are entirely wrong to say you are as strict with yourself as I would be: from now I decree that your criterion for turning a page is to roll a two or less, not your current four or more, lower numbers and a smaller chance both being more appropriate to your lowly condition. Strict enough for you? I’m afraid it will have to be, as I doubt you dare disobey a direct instruction like this. Your letter, although as pointless as no doubt everything else you do in your pathetic life, at least showed the proper respect and you are permitted to write again. As a special favour, I will permit you to purchase ten copies of the next issue, which you will prove by enclosing ten triangles cut from the bottom-right corner of the back page: I permit you to cut the magazine in this way and I note that that corner will not contain any images or text except the page number. To maximise the humiliation, I command you to buy the ten copies from ten separate newsagents. G-L L.

Superior Goddess-Lady Lucia

The giggling schoolgirls featured in Caught in the Shower in your July 1985 issue reminded me of an episode from my own schooldays in the early 1960s. I grew up in a small country town and my route to and from school took me along reed-lined country paths on the outskirts of town, past several small lakes and ponds. One hot summer day, I was on my way home when – passing the cool water of one of the secluded ponds and wishing to delay starting my homework as long as possible – I decided to take a dip. I quickly stripped off, leaving my clothes of a wooden platform jutting over the water, and dived in. On finishing my swim and reluctantly hauling myself out, however, I became aware of a mischievous pair of eyes watching me, and quickly ducked back down to preserve my modesty, as trill of mocking girlish laughter rang out. It was a girl from school called – well, I suppose she is a respectable married woman now, so I will preserve her anonymity by calling her ‘Gloria’ and during the school day, she would never normally address a word to me. But here she was – grinning in triumph, with my pile of clothes behind her.

Well, of course I threatened to ‘tell on her’, which made her cross and she picked up my shorts and hurled them into a stand of nettles. “There you are – get them yourself!” she spat. But of course, I could not run past her with nothing covering my private regions, even if I were to brave the stings on my shivering wet legs – or more sensitive parts! I begged for my pants but she just laughed again, picked them up carefully holding the seam between the tips of two fingers and hurled those so far into the foliage that I knew they would never be found.

“Do you want some underwear, then?” she asked, mockingly. I agreed that I did, in a humbler tone, I was beginning to imagine myself traipsing hither and yon among the nettles, chasing up each item in turn. I cannot have been thinking straight because I somehow seized upon the wild hope that she had a ‘spare’ pair of y-fronts with her, or had some plan to recover mine – but of course it was nothing like that. Instead, she reached under her skirt and pulled down her own knickers, then held them out to me. “Come on, then, poof. Put your knickers on.”

I was mortified, but I saw little alternative, so I reached out for the shameful garment and was just about to reach it when with a flick of her wrist, she tossed it into the water.

I had had enough. I saw red and started to haul myself out of the water – if she was going to see my privates, so be it! She had chosen for herself and I was not going to pull a pair of soaking wet girl’s knickers over them! But seeing my intention, she called out as if to someone else “Malcolm showed me his willy, Mum! He shouldn’t have done that should he?” and for a second time I sank back down, defeated.

Eventually, with red face and a pair of soaking cotton girls’ pants barely covering my modesty, I dashed past her into the foliage where I was able, with a few nettle stings to the legs, to recover my shorts. Sadly, even after a few minutes’ searching (and many more encounters with the nettles), I never found the underpants. When I came back to the shore of the pond and my clothes were there – although she had tossed them into a muddy puddle, leaving them in a state which got me into trouble when I got home. As she no doubt intended.

The next day – and for ever after – she reverted to the silent treatment and never spoke to me again. But I did get a note from her pointing out that she had graciously given me a pair of her knickers, so it was up to me to buy her a new pair: she specified the size. Two weeks pocket money gone in five minutes of utter embarrassment at Marks & Spencers… I was terrified I might run across someone I knew.

At the time I burned with resentment and shame and spent nights plotting over more complicated revenges on my tormentor. But girls were out of reach – they could always ‘tell’ and would be believed over boys. So I kept the resentment bottled up. But oddly, I also felt a powerful thrill, a fascination with the idea of being bullied and mistreated by a female, which has led to… well, Goddess Lady Lucia, as you can see I am an avid reader of your journal. Perhaps that says it all. I believe I have ‘Gloria’ to thank for that.

I wonder whether Gloria occasionally thinks of that day, too?

Knickerboy, Bishop’s Stortford

From your pen-name, Knickerboy, it seems a fair bet that Gloria’s actions that day have shaped your life. I wonder: do you pay professional ‘ladies’ to make you pull on soaking wet items of female underwear? Do they send you home with the cold water dripping down your thighs, and a face burning red with the shame both of what you had to do and the fact that you secretly enjoyed it? As for ‘Gloria’, on the other hand, she is probably happily married to a proper man and enjoying a healthy, normal sex life. I expect she’s forgotten all about you. G-L L.

Dear Ms Lucia

Your magazine is always wonderful but it was delightful to see some ‘larger’ ladies featured. I myself believe that some folds and curves only add to the attractiveness of the female form and I deplore the modern cult of the stick-thin so-called ‘supermodel’. Hoping to see some more lovely ladies of this type – or even more substantial – featured soon!

Curvelover

How dare you! Do you think that a woman’s weight is to be judged by how attractive it makes her to a member of the inferior sex? We women have had quite enough of that. If I had you in my grip, ‘Curvelover’ it would be YOU whose diet and shape would be made to appeal to someone else – specifically, to ME, as I believe that looking starved and miserably hungry ‘only adds to the attractiveness of the male form’. You would spend a week or two on a starvation diet, I would gag you tightly and eat cream patisseries in front of your mutely pleading face! And (once and for all) I am not to be addressed as ‘Dear’! G-L L.

Respected Editrix

I wonder whether you or your readers might be able to weigh in on a little discussion I have been having with one of my fellow dominant wives? We both like to use both the wooden paddle and the cane on our good-for-nothing, lazy husbands. However, I prefer to paddle first, creating a hot and sensitive bottom on which to apply the agony of the cane, while my friend Frieda prefers to cane first (leaving distinct cane weals like footprints across newly-fallen snow, as she so poetically puts it), then paddle the resulting mass of weals until she is satisfied the lesson has been learnt.

We decided to try an experiment, to resolve the matter. Her husband was secured tightly (he is a bit of a wimp) and we applied my method to the left buttock and Frieda’s to the right one. It took a while, but eventually with twenty slaps of the paddle and six of the best with the cane on each, we were done. The left buttock appears rather more savagely welted, the right more bruised but both are pleasantly purple. We shall see how they develop over the next few days. Each resulted in very gratifying shrieks and sobs, so both methods are obviously highly effective, but it was by no means clear which was better.

We are planning to repeat the experiment on my husband this weekend, once he has had a few days to dread it, but we wondered whether you had any suggestions or views on the matter?

Madame Rita

Dear Madame Rita. I was inspired by this to try out the paddle and the cane in sequence on a few of my own slaves. I can particularly recommend not informing the target of how many times the two implements will be swapped in session – let him think he is ‘over the caning’ before coming back after the paddling for another go! As to which sequence is more effective, I think it is down to individual taste. As the simple opinion of a lying male cannot be trusted, I suggest two possible tests. First, after you have subjected your husband to the two methods, have him write 300 lines each day, for a week or so, sitting on a hard wooden stool. If you do not have one high enough to keep his feet off the floor, you can tie them back: it is important that all the weight should be borne by his sore backside. Then observe which side he seems to favour, as he shifts around trying to find the least uncomfortable position. Alternatively, simply announce that next time he can choose between your and your friend’s approach. He will be sure to choose the one he finds least agonising. Then give him the other one of course, in double dose! Perhaps whichever lady turned out to be wrong should be the one to administer it, to work off any feelings of disappointment she might experience. My best wishes to both of you. G-L L.

Sublime and all-powerful Lady Lucia

Do you think it might be possible for some of the stories in your wonderful magazine to feature castration? This has always been a huge fantasy of mine.

Snippy

I’d love to, but it’s hard to find the male models for the accompanying photoshoots! In the mean time, why not do the human gene pool a favour by turning your fantasy into reality, creep? G-L L.

Goddess-Lady Lucia commands you to buy the the next issue of Empress, which will feature:

The continuing Trials of Steven, under the watchful eye and vicious lash of Miss Judy!
Distance Domination: a ‘phone dominatrix’ shares her secrets.
The saga of Miss Taverstock’s crusade against male masturbation in nineteenth-century London continues, with our heroine taking on and triumphing over a leading West End Club for English gentlemen.
Slave exercise routines.
A new series: Martin’s downfall. A successful businessman takes on a new housekeeper – and soon finds himself the one in domestic service!
Readers’ letters and a special message from the Editrix Herself.

So there you have it, for now (there may well be more). Self-indulgent twaddle? Yes, obviously. Only of interest to British femdom-obsessed men in their mid-fifties or above? Perhaps. But since one of them writes the blog, and does so primarily for his own amusement rather than any other reason, that’s all the audience that is needed. Possibly right now, I’m just talking to myself but if there are one or two others of a similar vintage who made it down here and recognise what I have done, I hope you enjoyed it. There may be more. There may not.

To the others: you missed out, back in 1988, but not to worry. There’s still plenty of modern femdom around and I’ll be adding to it, at least twice a week, every week.